


tomorrow i’ll be gone

by oftachancer



Series: here in this moment [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Branching Narratives, M/M, Plot-induced PWP, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: Fresh from the timeslip, Aran Trevelyan returns in the midst of the battle of Adamant and makes some changes to his home timeline. Prophecies are deciphered, solutions are searched for, and mysteries are brought to light.





	1. The spheric helm of Zazikel

“Mind yourself!” Dorian snapped, erecting a barrier around Hawke as she swung her staff heedlessly, bolt after bolt of darktearing lightning shredding Fadeflesh. She might as well have been frothing at the mouth, a storm-wielding mabari. She’d already singed the Bull once and he was a hard one to miss, even in the heat of battle.

“He’s going to get away!” she shouted wildly.

“Got it! _Non curarem_! I’ve got the blighter!”

Dorian’s heart stopped for a beat, his barrier flickering in his distraction. That voice. Weeks since he’d heard it. Cheerful and glib. Marcher brogue tangling thickly with Tevene. “Aran,” he whispered. Dark cloth billowed like a storming sea up the stone steps, daggers flashing silver in the night, and crashed like a wave over Livius Erimond: the poncy prick, one more blighted Imperium Magister to ruin everything.

“Ha!” Aran crowed, laughter like a hurricane, “Knew your heading this time! Feckin’ predictable!” He brought his palm with the dagger’s hilt down hard on the back of the magister’s head and the hand that Erimond had begun to raise with power fell slack against the stones. Aran looked up.

At least, it seemed as though he was looking up. His face was hidden behind a globe of jutting, rough-hewed diamonds set into blackened metal mesh. Intimidating, vicious, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating. But the turn of his neck, the angle of his shoulders... Flowing black silk caught every breeze around him, rippling like midnight water and leaving bare his chest, freckled and hard and sweat-gleaming, slashed with pinked scars and lines of silver-white paint. Resilient, imperfect, glorious male. Infernally beautiful. Deadly. Invitation and warning all in one.

“Where’s Clarel?” Aran shouted.

Dorian croaked, gasping in air as Sera ran across the ramparts to Aran’s side, “She went ahead of this one.” She kicked Erimond’s unconscious shoulder with the toe of her patched boot.

“Blackwall? Stroud?”

“Blackwall was helping Cullen and Cassandra at the gates last I saw. Stroud’s… over there- see him?” She pointed across the crisscrossing stone walkways flooded with demons and soldiers.

“We need him to talk her down! Hawke!”

Hawke spun, launching a bolt past his mask; the diamonds it touched gleamed with its passing. He didn’t flinch.

“Get Stroud, follow, try not to kill the good guys, yeah?” He shouted to her, then clapped Sera in the shoulder as he started running. “Just like the old days, eh?” He called over his shoulder, laughter pouring as surely as the watery silk around him.

“Yeah- You look like a twat,” Sera snorted as they rounded the steps and disappeared from view.

Dorian startled as Bull’s axe crashed just behind him. The demon splitting and dissolving made him blink.

“Go or stay, but don’t stand there like an idiot.”

“Thank you for that rare insight,” Dorian quipped and pulled a barrier around them as a pride demon came crashing across the stones, “I’ll repay the favor, shall I?”

They knew that Aran, Hawke, and Stroud had succeeded when horns sounded and the Warden-Commander’s voice echoed with magic amplification across the battlements, calling an end to hostilities. The Wardens they’d been fighting against turned immediately to aid in the destruction of the demons they themselves had raised.

When he climbed the three flights to the upper rise, Dorian was weary and better prepared. And yet Aran was still a sight worthy of some bloodshed. He could well have been a wraith, the finely wrought robe in a dozen shades of black snapping in the wind, the diamond-studded helm resting like a bandit king’s victim on a standing spear at his side as he peered down his nose at the former commander of the Wardens. She was folded, defeated, between Aran and Stroud, not injured as far as Dorian could see, but defeated nonetheless. Aran lifted his face to the sky, sighing, Fadelight eyes startling as they peered from the band of black paint across the upper half of his face. His shock-white hair was wound into a thousand infinitesimal braids, glimmering with threads of silver and gold, beaded with crystalline dew drops. Not real. Not human. Some kind of vengeful spirit torn from the Fade, tempting and terrorizing. Never in his whole life had Aran looked more deserving of the title of Inquisitor. “Maker,” Dorian whispered, surprised at the need in his own voice.

“Hey, Sparkler, you doin’ okay? We won, right?” Varric panted, jogging up to his side. “Another glorious, messy victory for the Inquisition?”

“Looks that way,” Carver leaned heavily on the crumbling stone wall.

Dorian’s mouth was dry. He dragged his gaze from Aran, searching the dark. “Where’s the other Hawke?”

“Cooling down,” Carver said with a smirk, “Apparently, we’re not killing folks who raise demons now. It’s a change my sister’s not exactly thrilled about.”

“You didn’t kill - what’s his name - Anders.”

“Because of him,” Carver nodded towards Aran, “And she wasn’t thrilled by that, either.”

Dorian glanced back at the Warden-Commander who was weakly answering Aran’s interrogation, pitiful and slumped. Grieving fiercely. Wrong done for the right reasons. Aran wouldn’t punish that with death. He felt more than saw Cole glide to their side, daggers sheathing, transparent longing in the lean of his body and fastened intensity of his gaze on Aran’s profile. _Do I watch him like that?_ “Still don’t care about looks?” he asked mildly.

Cole blinked, eyes warm and cool at the same time, and Dorian swallowed as he noticed the intensity didn’t wane as the rogue looked from Aran to himself. “Why do they peel grapes?”

“Because it’s undignified to eat something still wearing its clothes.” Dorian glanced back towards the Inquisitor and ran his tongue over his teeth, wanting to do exactly that.

The silk flowed around him like liquid night as Aran turned towards them, all wild with witchcraft. He slanted his daggers together, sheathing them into each other’s handles and unrolling the hilts’ casements, transforming the blades into the semblance of a staff.

 _Magister_.

Now, in torchlit flickering night, Dorian saw the fine, careful embroidery around the hems of the black silk, the delicate scrolling of silver thread down from his shoulders.

Aran sighed, sober, as he reached them, “Hey. Everyone okay? Did anyone stay with Erimond?”

“Wardens,” Cole murmured. “They don’t understand, but they know he’s to blame.”

“Let’s make sure they don’t kill him yet.” He squeezed Cole’s arm gently, a frown flickering across his lips and disappearing as Cole slipped from his touch and down the stairs. “Nice to see you, too,” he huffed.

“Are Orlesian fashions changing? Should I make some new investments?” Varric grinned.

“Huh?” Aran followed the dwarf’s gaze to himself, laughed, “Ah, no. Minrathous’ Satinalia. But if you want a sure bet, Tevinter always want opals. Opals and black pearls. Good for conducting and amplifying magic. Actually, Dorian, don’t you think we should outfit the Inquisition’s mages with them? I bet the scouts have a collection from the Venatori we could put to use outside the treasury.”

Dorian stared at him blankly.

“I’ll pass the word along.” Varric cleared his throat, glancing between them, “Come on, Carver, someone needs to make sure Hawke doesn’t set the fortress on fire. Let’s leave these two alone for a minute.”

Aran smiled a little, glancing at Dorian as the others wandered away. “Are you okay?”

Dorian’s hand shook as he carefully traced the strands of symbols on the inner edge of Aran's robe. _Magister_ , he read again. “You’re Named," he murmured. "How are you _Named_?”

“It’s protection, Dorian; it isn’t as though I vote-”

“But you _could._ ” He looked up, “How?”

“I’ve got some convincing skills and the good word of the Archon. You’d be surprised how often people think I’m a mage. Perks of being time-swept and god-puppeted, I suppose.” Aran rested his hand over Dorian’s, thumb brushing the calluses on his palm. “Gods, I’ve missed you.” He drew that hand to his mouth and kissed every sweaty, blood-spattered inch.

Dorian shivered, breath caught in his throat. His entire life had been built, moment by moment, to earn him those scrolling symbols on his own robes and he'd turned his back on it. He'd left the Imperium behind, along with the likelihood that he would ever be Named, ever see his name etched in the Hall of Magisters in Minrathous. Yet here was Aran, fresh from living the life he might have, and doing so with a version of himself he might have been. Kissing his hands on a crumbling fortress wall strewn with the remains of demons. For how long? How long before he disappeared into aether again, returning to the Imperium and the Archon and that life that might have been his?

“What’s wrong?” Aran asked.

What _wasn't_ wrong? he wondered. Focus. He needed to focus. “You were in Minrathous. The other Minrathous. With him.”

"We talked about this... didn't we?" Aran squinted, “I thought we’d sorted-”

“That isn’t-“ Dorian shook his head quickly, “How long?”

“Which- you mean just now or-” Slowly, Aran lowered his hand, “Maybe this isn’t the best time-”

“ _Time,_ ” Dorian snarled. “You could have been killed. _We_ could have killed you. Here we are, besieged by lunatic Magisters and mad Tevinter mages serving Old Gods, and you sweep into our fight looking-” He saw the shocked hurt spread in those Fadelight eyes and cursed himself, “That isn’t what I meant.”

“I’m not a lunatic Magister serving an old god?” Aran asked quietly.

“Aran, you know very well that isn’t what I- You’re not even a mage-”

“Is that the only sticking point? I’m more connected to the Fade than most mages I know. I swim through time. I can bend spirits to my will-” He lifted his chin when Dorian’s jaw tightened. “You knew already. Cole told you, I suppose?”

“He said that you promised him you wouldn't.”

“Doesn’t change what I _can_ do, does it?” Aran lifted a brow, arched, so utterly supercilious that Dorian could practically hear the echoing high marble ceilings of a Minrathous salon in the expression. “After all, I’m a lunatic. One never knows what I might do next.” So still. Steel.

Maker, he was infuriating. “How long?” Dorian asked again.

“What does it matter?”

“I’m keeping a record.”

The sound that sharply issued from Aran was more bark than humor, “Of course you are.”

“Stop it.”

“Why? Too lunatic or too Magister?”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse.” Dorian took a fistful of Aran’s silk. It felt like air, moved like water. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“ _Vis aliud quid per os tuum_?[1]” Aran hissed, as cool as iced champagne on a warm day, his lashes lowering to disappear into the paint that surrounded his eyes.

Dorian breathed out slowly, watching those angry slits of otherworldly gleaming green track him. Invitation, fury, pain. He slid his fingers between the beads and threads and twisting moonlight strands of Aran's hair; gems bit into his flesh as he tightened his grip. “How much of a viper have they made you, I wonder.”

“Test my teeth, Altus.”

“I think I will.” He plunged, knuckles scratched by diamonds, and kissed unyielding lips. “You’re wearing a blighted treasury,” he whispered.

“Hardl-”

Dorian tilted him back and drove his tongue against Aran’s, twisted, sucked the other man’s tongue until Aran moaned against him. Shivered and gave. He felt Aran stroke his shoulders, spine, backside. Heat and press. Smelled the coriander on Aran’s skin, and cardamom; his but not his. Pressed Aran back against the damp, broken stones, silk to silk, hip to hip. “Mine,” he rasped as they broke for breath.

Aran nodded, absently tonguing a small cut on his lip where Dorian’s tooth had clipped him. He was bone and muscle under Dorian’s hands, yielding, leaning in.

“Say it.” Dorian rolled his hips forward and drew a groan from Aran’s throat.

“Yours.”

“Good.” He pressed his forehead to Aran’s, breathed. “Missed me, did you?”

“At least once a minute.”

“For how long?”

Aran smiled, lopsided, shuddering a quiet laugh, “Sneaky.” He cleared his throat, “A little over a year, I think.”

The air was sucked out of his lungs. “They have more of you than I do. More and more every time.” Dorian shuddered, shutting his eyes. “Lobos silk?"

"Yes."

"It’s nice.”

“I’ll be sure to send your compliments to Ril. He loves hearing his work called ‘nice’.”

Dorian laughed, a little strangled. “Must I pen a more thoughtful review to keep your tailor happy?”

“If I tell him you took me against a wall, I think he’ll be pleased.”

“You think so?” He licked the cut on Aran’s lip, “I would.”

“I’d let you.”

“Ugh! Some things you can never clean from your brain, no matter how much you scrub!”

Dorian scowled at the interrupting groan from the girl. He could see her in his periphery, even as he refused to look away from Aran’s eyes. “Go away, Sera.”

“Dead demons everywhere. Wardens getting rounded up. Cassandra wants the Inquisitor to pass some of his famous judgment.” She cleared her throat noisily, “So keep it in your breeches for a bit.”

“No breeches to keep it in,” Aran held Dorian’s gaze, lips curved in utterly inappropriate promise. “They can wait a couple of minutes.”

“Twenty,” Dorian murmured, watching his mouth.

“Five,” Aran kissed him hard. “If I can do five in a broom closet, you can do five here.”

“Gross,” Sera muttered. “Surrounded by demon goo, getting all handsy, dressed like a twat-”

“And about to behave like one,” Aran turned in Dorian’s arms to brace against the wall. “Scamper while you can, my friend.”

Sera shuddered dramatically. “I’ll try to buy you ten. You owe me,” she added, and fled.

Dorian pressed his lips to the back of Aran’s neck, pulling the flow of his robes up, up, up, smoothing his hands over the backs of Aran’s tensed thighs. “Ten minutes.”

“Less, unless you want to still be inside me when Cassandra loses patience and comes to fetch us.” Aran’s laugh deepened into a moan as Dorian tugged his smallclothes down, fingers seeking and sinking. “Ah-”

He was slick. Dorian moaned, stroking his fingers deeper easily, drawing gasps from Aran. Slick through and through. “Maker, you were just with him,” he rubbed his lips against the back of Aran’s neck. He didn’t want to find it as arousing as he did. Didn’t want the image of that other him driving into Aran to make him so hard he wanted to weep.

“Please-”

“Did the Archon take you against a wall, too?” he rasped, freeing himself to thrust into that hot, welcoming, already fucked hole.

“ _Yes_! No-” Aran met him thrust for thrust, moaning, “Not him- Ril-”

“Rilienus.” Images flowed through his mind’s eye. The obsession he’d had with that man’s lips, the curl of them- those curling lips pressed to Aran’s skin, those nimble fingers clutching as he thrust- thrust-

“Yes- ah- yes-” Aran grasped Dorian’s ass, pulling him deeper, closer, “Don’t stop-”

He curled his fingers around Aran’s staff, stroking the weeping head with his thumb, “How long did he get?”

“Less-” His head fell back against Dorian’s cheek, “Yesss-”

“Tell me.”

“Dorian-”

Dorian thrust hard, squeezing him tight, “Tell me.”

“Have to- wait- for the announcement- every fucking- gala- ah- sort of- game-” Aran’s fingers sank into Dorian’s hair, dragging him forward, twisting to meet him, “Kiss me.”

“Every time?” he whispered against Aran’s lips.

“Almost-” He moaned, shuddering his release as Dorian kissed him hard, sweeping his tongue up Aran’s palate to caress the vibration of his cry, and Dorian followed him, cresting, pouring into him. And pouring. And pouring. Aran breathed him in, bound him closer hungrily through the whole of his ecstasy and after. Even as they readjusted smallclothes and smoothed out the lines of their robes, their tongues tangled, breathless, stumbling together.

“Inquisitor!”

Aran groaned at the distant shout, the scrape of steel tipped boots coming up the stairs around the corner. “Let’s just run away. You can fuck me in every inn from here to Ostwick,” he whispered.

“Slattern,” Dorian smiled.

“You say that now,” Aran laughed, twisting away. “Here, Cassandra!” he called over his shoulder, twined his fingers with Dorian’s. “Are we okay?”

“We will be.”

“Good enough for now, I guess.” Aran kissed him, “Let’s recruit some Wardens.”

Cassandra rounded the wall and rushed them, grasping Aran’s arms. “When they said you’d gone again-”

“I came back.”

“We must find a way to end these departures-”

Dorian cleared his throat, finishing an incantation of cleansing before answering, “I am working on it, Cassandra, I promise you.”

“Yes, of course you are. I don’t doubt it.” She squeezed Aran and pulled him towards the stairs. “Warden-Commander Clarel-”

Aran nodded, “She has asked to be sent to the Deep Roads. It’s her choice, but I’m hoping we can convince her otherwise. Stroud and I have gotten as far as agreeing to remain with us long enough at least to select and train a successor. Sera said Blackwall is here?”

Cassandra nodded.

Aran smiled, “It’ll be good to see him again. He’s a great judge of character.”

“True. Still, it’s your soldiers who fought this battle. They’ll want to hear from you. To see you.”

“They’re your soldiers, too, Cassandra. Yours and Cullen’s and Leliana’s. And this is a matter for Wardens. Blackwall will know what the next step should be.” Aran had a sheen of sweat still on his forehead, glistening, the black paint across his face running in eerie rivers down his cheeks. He sighed cheerfully. “See- you really don’t need me at all.”

“And yet we do,” she gestured them towards the stairs. “A decision needs to be made. Formally. Even if that decision is to cede judgment to the Wardens.”

“Then, by all means, let’s. After you, Seeker.” He smiled nervously, tugging at the braids of his hair, “Bad time to be playing dress up, though, isn’t it?”

“That you are alive is all that matters,” Cassandra said soberly.

“I second the Seeker, Inquisitor. News that you survived yet again seemed to be just the thing to put all those soldiers in fighting spirits. But… we’ll let Cassandra go first, yes? Just in case. And perhaps you could leave off the helm so they can see your familiar freckled features. It would be a pity to have you return to us only to be slaughtered by our own people, wouldn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Tevene: “Would you prefer something else in your mouth?”


	2. Hello, world. Mythal calling.

Adamant’s lower courtyard was a disaster of charred wood and shattered stone. Clarel stood in the center unbound, head hanging, in her own personal prison without the necessity of any external guard or bars. Stroud was speaking quickly and quietly with Blackwall near her. Cullen sat perched on a fallen rampart, cleaning his greatsword. At the sight of the three of them, Cullen rose in a swift motion and tread across to them, holding his sword at the ready. Dorian pulled power through the flimsy Veil to draw a barrier to intercede when Cassandra stepped ahead, shaking her head quickly.

“See?” Aran smiled a little tightly, “I’m pretty feckin’ mage-y these days.”

“Your ensemble doesn’t help matters,” Dorian murmured, relaxing only when Cullen carefully sheathed his sword.

“You like the robe, though,” Aran’s uncomfortable smile loosened and toppled to the side in easy adoration.

Here he was behaving, trying to help Aran retain a modicum of privacy and gravitas in the face of the whole bloody Inquisition and all the defeated Wardens, and the man was flirting with him. “I do feel as though I’ve begun a trend of good fashion sense. It’s exhilarating.” Dorian lifted his brows, “Hurry along now and speak with your commander, will you? Some of us have work to do.” He narrowed his eyes, “Try not to disappear again.”

“I’ll do my best.” Aran reached towards him and Dorian tried not to see the hurt in those Fadeshifting eyes as he retreated from the touch. Someone had to protect the man from himself. The Inquisition at large had enough to adjust to in this new Aran without adding him bedding a Tevinter mage into the mix. Before, it had been different. Before, Aran Trevelyan had been wholly a Marcher noble, of a thoroughly Andrastian family, touched by the Maker himself; Dorian’s presence was just one more proof that the Southern Chantry’s power was absolute and pure. Now? If they could contain the knowledge of his madness, of what exactly was happening when he disappeared for periods of time, somehow spin a story about his scars and hair... and the fact he no longer spoke the Chant with ease...

Word would spread eventually, of course, Dorian knew, but hopefully not until after they’d accepted Aran’s latest return from the beyond. Maker knew that would be difficult enough, especially with the Chantry in as much upheaval as it was now. He moved to stand with the mages, though he barely listened to them as he eavesdropped on the Inquisition leadership.

“How did we do?” Aran was asking, turning to Cullen.

Cullen glanced at Cassandra who simply lifted her brows. “Ah. Well. Inquisitor. It’s- good to have you… back?”

“Thank you. Report?”

“We didn’t lose too many. We were lucky to have your warning. It gave us just enough time to move a good sized force to the fort as the Champion of Kirkwall arrived. Knowing we were headed into a battle with demons gave us a chance to prepare. And then we were joined by Templars halfway here. The remains of the Order have officially joined the Inquisition, apparently. I hear that was your work?”

“That’s my job, isn’t it? Recruiting?” Aran flexed his hand absently on the diamond globe tucked under his wide silk sleeve. “Are we going to have a problem, Cullen?”

“No... No, Inquisitor. Cassandra sent word that things have… happened. Changed. We’ll discuss them at Skyhold. In the meantime, my sword is yours.”

“Hopefully, I won’t be needing it again until after that meeting,” Aran murmured. “I wouldn’t want to ask you to act against your instincts.”

Cullen’s cheeks reddened, but he nodded stiffly. “As you say, Inquisitor.”

“Our forces?”

“Outmatched the Wardens and the Venatori, thanks to our intel. The injured are being seen to. What survivors remain of the Venatori have been rounded up for questioning by the scouts. No Inquisition losses tallied yet, but the medics are still searching the fort. The Wardens, however-”

“They’ll need our support. They’ve been through a great deal in a short span of time. Healers, definitely. Chantry sisters. There are some scholars in Starkhaven who were working on situational malaise borne of deep psychic stresses. We might send for them, they could help the sisters and the healers with their work.” Aran glanced at Cassandra, who nodded.

“I’ll send word,” she agreed.

“Excellent. Where’s Blackwall?”

“There.” She nodded across the courtyard to the bristled grizzly of a man speaking with Stroud.

Aran frowned and it was hard for Dorian to tell much from his expression between the angle and the paint. Aran lifted his chin a touch, calling, “Warden Blackwall!”

Blackwall turned and started over to them. And Dorian watched Aran’s eyes narrow.

Not that Dorian was a fan of Blackwall. Hardly. The Warden was uncouth, smelled of woodchips, sour sweat, and ale, and had been - at his best - derogatory towards Dorian with the utmost consistency since Cassandra and Leliana had found him. But he’d saved Dorian’s life within days of meeting him. He was steadfastly loyal to the Inquisition. And he had been useful in other ways, too, Dorian could admit grudgingly. Helping Cullen with the soldiers. Giving the most tender recruits more time and energy than any of the captains had to spare. Hardly worthy of the narrowed slits of gleaming green currently fastened on him. Especially after the way Aran had spoken about him, as though he were a deeply trusted advisor, a close friend. Dorian hesitated, but stayed where he was. Distance. Balance. Aran needed to restore his image and, if Dorian fluttered into every little happenstance, it would raise too many eyebrows.

“Inquisitor,” Blackwall rumbled. “Stroud was just telling me what you agreed to regarding the Wardens. I’m glad to hear it.” He struck his hand out gruffly, “And doubly glad to see you’re alive and back to take charge of things here. Good leadership’s hard to come by...” He trailed off, his offered hand lost in chill limbo between them.

Aran looked at Cassandra, then Cullen, glanced past them to Bull, then Dorian. His frown deepened, heavy, and his eyes seemed to beg for some kind of guidance. About what, Dorian couldn’t be sure. Dorian gave a slight nod, trying to say without words that whatever was suddenly troubling Aran, they would figure it out. Aran took something from that nod, Dorian couldn’t know what, and turned back to Blackwall, taking his hand in a hard shake.

“It would seem so,” he said, meeting Blackwall’s suddenly uncomfortable gaze. “I look forward to getting to know you better. For now…” He glanced at Cassandra, “Send word to King Alistair and tell him I want Grimna. If she wants to relocate the Warden stronghold to the Bannorn, that’s up to them, but I need her hands on these reins for now.”

“Grimna… Aeducan?” she asked, barely containing her surprise. “The Hero of Ferelden?”

“Did I stutter?” Aran inquired quietly. He looked back at Blackwall for an instant longer, then dropped the Warden’s hand. “She was in Ferelden recently. Alastair will know how to find her. I also want a Warden contingency at Skyhold. At least six. Find me some good people you can trust, Cullen. Some you believe will mix well with your soldiers.” He hesitated. Frowned again. “…Blackwall.”

“Yes, Inquisitor?”

“What do you think should happen to frauds and liars?” Aran asked mildly. Blackwall stiffened, eyes narrowing, and opened his mouth to speak just as Aran pointed past him. “Erimond has been misleading the Wardens for some time. Something needs to be done with him.”

“...Some men can change if you help them find a better way. But this one- I couldn’t say, my lord.”

“I’m no one’s lord. I’m a rebel upstart. Shall we do it my way? Why not, since I’m here.” Aran tapped his ‘staff’ against the ground, collapsing the charade and drawing his blades free. “Warden-Commander Clarel,” he announced, his voice carrying in echoes around the courtyard. He strode over to Clarel and flipped the blade, offering it hilt-side to her. “You will be relieved of command, per your request.”

“What is he _doing_?” Cullen hissed under his breath, but the words carried in the sudden silence.

Aran ignored him. “This man, Livius Erimond,” he indicated the Venatori with his second blade, “has lied to you and to the Wardens. His so-called Elder God has manipulated your sense of the Calling. His death is rightfully yours to claim.”

“Inquisitor-“ Cassandra jerked towards them, but his look stilled her.

Clarel gazed up at Aran, tears shining in her eyes. “I cannot wield a blade for the Wardens-“

“Put the guilt you feel into that man, Clarel. He is your enemy. His actions have brought you all to this precipice. His duplicity baited and grew your fear. End him, and let his ending be a new beginning for you and for the Grey Wardens. Your redemption lies in his veins. Blood for blood.”

Her jaw tightened, her hand closing over his blade. “Can there truly be redemption for any of this?“

“Would you deny them?” he asked her, looking at the collected Wardens ringing closer around them. “Thedas needs the Grey Wardens. You are all true men and women, in heart and word. You’ve sacrificed yourselves for the safety of us all. We are in your debt. Take back your names.” He stepped to the side, “Put an end to the misery he’s caused and let his blood cleanse your souls.” He looked over, “Bring him. And shut him up, will you, no one wants to hear him spew his filth again.”

Erimond struggled in grip of two Inquisitor soldiers, eyes rolling white with fear, muffled shouting now that a gag had been hurriedly shoved in his mouth. Clarel looked at the blade, then the mage. “For the Wardens,” she cried, and brought the blade down in one sweeping arc, driving it into Erimond’s heart.

“No. Leave it,” he stopped the soldiers from carrying the cooling corpse away. “His body is for the ravens. He deserves nothing more from any of us.” With that, he turned and walked past a gaping Cullen and Cassandra towards the Iron Bull, crooking a finger. “You, with me. Stroud,” he called over his shoulder, “you will take command until Warden Aeducan arrives from Ferelden. There are yet many miles to go before any of us can walk the Deep.”

Dorian stared after him as Aran strode out the fort’s battered doors with the Iron Bull in tow. Erimond’s body lay, still warm and bleeding, on the broken stones as men and women slowly walked away from him. Above, the ravens were already circling. ”Aran…” he sighed under his breath. Cold and hard as the steel of his blades. Not the Aran they knew, this bloodied taskmaster. He met Cassandra's gaze and lifted a shoulder at the question in her eyes. He was all out of answers.

“He’s… different than you lot described him,” Blackwall was saying quietly.

“He’s different, period,” Cullen stared hard at Cassandra. “What the Void-“

“Elsewhere. We’ll speak of it elsewhere.”

“I pray to the Maker you know what you’re doing,” Cullen muttered, following on her heels.

“As do I, Commander.”

It took the better part of two days to secure the wounded and organize the Inquisition’s inflated forces for travel. Scouts, knights, soldiers, Wardens, Templars, mages- hundreds of men and women brought together in the middle of the desert. Aran was everywhere and nowhere, moving between tents, checking harnesses and cart inventories, issuing commands with the quiet expectation of obedience of a seasoned general.

At some point, he’d traded his silken robes for a set of patched, dark leather trousers and an unbuckled jerkin over a loose-necked shirt, blades sheathed at his back, thighs, calves, and forearms. Dark paint still clung, raccoon-like, around his eyes and he hadn’t bothered yet to unbind the myriad gemmed and threaded braids. Dorian lifted a brow as he watched his lover pace past, shooting him a dark look in passing. Abandoning a conversation with a Warden mage, he joined Aran on his circuit. “Bee in your bonnet, Inquisitor?”

“Nothing’s as it should be.”

“That’s certainly true. What, in particular, is troubling you?”

“I don’t- this… Blackwall.” He leaned heavily on the large wheel of a cart. “What do you know about him?”

“Leliana heard of a Warden traveling alone in the Hinterlands, helping refugees and locals. Darkspawn were popping up all over the Storm Coast. We couldn’t find any other Wardens. You were dead, so far as we knew.”

“And he just… joined up?”

“After Cassandra’s inspiring call to arms, I nearly joined up all over again. She makes you feel like a coward if you don’t want to throw yourself bodily in front of villains and monsters.” Dorian watched him carefully, “You’re not happy with him.”

“No.” Aran scowled, “That isn’t… He isn’t the Blackwall that I know.”

“Well, none of us are the same as you sometimes remember us.“

“No, that’s not-” Aran sliced a hand through the air, “I just- I asked Bull to look into my concern. Blessed All-Mother, it feels as though everything’s turned on its head.”

“What exactly _is_ your concern? Because we’ve all attempted to talk to him about bathing. He’s damnably stubborn about it.”

“What? No. Bathing?” He frowned, “Was it just because he was the only Warden you could find?”

“That’s a fairly good reason when one has a horde of hurlocks to contend with.” Dorian flexed his fingers idly, “But he’s… a decent enough fellow, I suppose. Irritating, stubborn, and odorous, but decent. Don’t tell anyone I said so. Vivienne and I have a wager on who he’ll finally let convince him to trim that boorish beard. I’d like to win fairly.” He paused, “I thought you were friends?”

“Yes… I thought so, too.”

“Aran-“

“I don’t-” Aran stepped towards him and hung his head back in exhaustion as Dorian stepped just out of reach. “Damn it. Stop managing me.”

“You’ve given them all quite a start. Perhaps we might try to limit it to one shock at a time...”

“You aren’t a shock. You’re my home. It’s not as though most of Skyhold didn’t know about us before, anyway.” Aran held his hand out between them, palm open, fingers lax, “Dorian. I can’t do this on my own.”

“You won’t have to, Amatus,” he murmured, “but I think it’s best right now if we’re more circumspect.”

“I need you. I need you with me.”

There was a desperation in the tone of his voice, in the near-feverish glint of those unearthly eyes, and Dorian sighed, “You have me.” Some of the tension ebbed from Aran’s shoulders, but - much like the tide - Dorian knew it would return soon enough. In the meantime, he took that waiting hand in his own and let the contact settle them both. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Just… come here. Have you slept since Adamant?”

“I don’t know. Where the Void is Cole?” Aran asked, leaning his forehead to Dorian’s shoulder.

Dorian had been wondering much the same thing. The spirit had… ghosted… for lack of a better term as soon as he’d spoken to Aran on the ramparts. “Perhaps he, too, is attempting to be circumspect,” Dorian mused.

Aran exhaled a low, frustrated growl. “I don’t have time for this bullshit, Dorian. I don’t want to waste what moments I have with you pretending not to be with you for the sake of other people’s ignorance. I understand the dangers and concerns,” he lifted his head, brushed his fingers over Dorian’s cheek, “I really do. I’ve played these games, alright? I’ve seen it from all its angles and I just- don’t- give a damn anymore. If they want to try bringing torches and pitchforks at us, at you and me and him, then I will end them. That’s it.”

Dorian blinked. “That’s quite the brutal streak you’ve developed.”

But he was at a fever pitch now. “If I expect honesty from those who follow me, I owe them the right to choose me as I am. If they don’t… Well…”

“Well, what? You can’t expect me to believe you’d give up on the Inquisition. I’d more quickly believe Corypheus wears silk nighties.”

Aran tipped his head back to peer up at him, brows lifted in surprise, “No! _Ew_. And no- but I’ve worked from the sidelines for years now. I can keep helping, keep aiding the Inquisition without being it’s bloody feckin’ figurehead. If they don’t think I’m good enough to lead them, knowing who I am and the choices I’ve made, then they don’t deserve me. Or you. Or any of us. But they won’t hurt us; I won’t allow that.” Fingers traced Dorian’s cheeks, his jaw. Inhuman eyes swirled like the endless oceans of the Fade, hypnotizing and entrancing.

Dorian twined his fingers with Aran’s at his cheeks, drawing his hands down and away. “They’re scared, Aran, and - to a certain extent - they have a right to be.”

“Don’t _you_ start-“

“They fight my countrymen on an almost daily basis, the sky was torn by a living relic of the lore that has taught them to hate and fear Tevinter, _you_ were stolen from them - twice - by magic wielded by Magisters-”

“I came back.”

“Because of Andraste.”

“By the gods…” Aran laughed hollowly. “It’s so strange to think I once believed that.”

“Is there a reason you shouldn’t still?”

“Have you forgotten about the All-Mother? And all She implies? Then there’s the Dread Wolf that the Well keeps talking about-“

“Very well. That’s two. Why not a third? Make it a trifecta. You seem to be rather fond of the number three.”

Aran shook his head. “You don’t know, Dorian. You haven’t felt- I know what that is - that… ageless, endless power, like a crashing wave, pressing me to the side. I don’t _feel_ Andraste.”

“Perhaps Andraste feels different because she _is_ different.”

“The throne is empty.”

“And she walks at the Maker’s side. Who’s to say where they are now?”

“Gods, you really are Andrastian to your toes, aren’t you?”

“I am not overly fond of the Chantry itself, but-“ Dorian smiled ruefully. “I do find I’ve been ensnared by a Chantry _boy_. _He’s_ been a terrible influence.”

“Not terrible enough, clearly.”

“In any case, the Blessed Andraste strikes me more as a general than a god. Commanding the Maker’s forces and such. Not one for sitting about on thrones, that one. Reminds me of someone else. Can’t imagine who.” He lifted a brow, “Can you?”

“You get me all wound up when you go theological,” Aran gazed up at him.

“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat. “Ask your voices how many vessels your All-Mother has walked in since the fall of the elven pantheon. I’ll wager ten royals that the Andraste you’d formerly devoted your life to isn’t all that far removed from the goddess who claimed you later. It may even be part of why she chose you. Had you considered that?”

“No. I hadn’t,” he admitted softly. “And it is something to think about.”

“I'm full of interesting theories.”

“You are.” He traced the edges of Dorian’s jaw lightly, thinking, sorting through Maker only knew how many timelines and experiences. At times, he found himself wishing for Cole’s gift of mind-sipping, but others… “Dorian.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like an idiot saying this aloud, but... you know that I’m not a prophet, right?”

“You certainly are, complete with prophecies.”

“No, I mean-“

“You don’t want to be. Frankly, I don’t want that, either, but I’ve never seen much point in ignoring what _is_ simply because it’s uncomfortable.” Dorian brushed a few strands of tangled white-blonde hair from his forehead, “Don't worry. I won’t let it go to your head.”

“You know… trying to convince me that I’m some sort of second coming of Andraste isn’t going to win you any awards with the Chantry.”

“Rats. Was I being considered for one previously? What sort of awards do they dole out? Does it involve oils and a warm bath? Or was it simply one of those irritating little medals you southerners pin to your clothing?”

Aran pressed his palm to Dorian’s heart, “Dorian, you know-”

“I know I’m devastatingly handsome, but you really must stop all this public fondling.” He patted Aran’s hand lightly, his heart tripping beneath it, “You’ll wrinkle my silk, for one.”

Aran snorted softly, biting his lip as he tucked both his hands into his pockets. Still, he was so close, barely a breath away. Not making this easy, not at all. He sighed, low and quiet. “It’s not fair to you. I know it isn’t. I keep trying to remind myself that you don’t have any reason to feel the way I do. I don’t expect you to-”

“Aran-”

"And I’m not asking you to,” he peered up, solemn, “and it’s maddening because I’ve had years to spend with these other versions of you. Kind and wise and brilliant and complete, utter jackasses-”

Dorian smirked.

“But they aren’t you. No matter what common histories you’ve shared with them. You’re always… well, you’re different. Essentially you. Here. And there’s something… something in me that’s always reaching back to here. Not because this is where I came from, but because this is where you are. You and Cole. Like hearthfires. You can’t know-“ he shook his head, “But I’ve had time with this- this feeling. I’ve had time to work through it and live with it, while you- gods, you’ve been jerked every bloody which way, haven’t you? You got to the south, reeling from everything that basta- ah, well, and then there was time traveling in Redcliffe and Corypheus at Haven and endless demons and - Merciful Mother, with me, you’ve been on an endless loop of starting all over again. You haven’t had a moment’s peace since this whole thing began. You deserve that.”

“A moment’s peace? I daresay none of us would say no to that. Perhaps after Corypheus-”

“That lyrium-riddled cockend can go hang.”

Dorian coughed to barely cloak a chuckle, “That is the idea, I believe.”

“It won’t end with him, though. Even if we figure out a way to head off the war that’s brewing… there’s still the other six who ascended and they’re… fucking terrifying. I just-”

Dorian rested his thumb on Aran’s lips. “I hate you.”

“You can’t really-”

“I beg to disagree.”

“No, I mean you can’t _know_ that-”

“Some of us don’t have to think things to death.”

“ _You_ do. You’ve got the most ordered bloody mind I’ve ever encountered.” Aran smiled, watery, exhausted, “Cole says you’re like a holiday for him. All clear, clean lines-”

Dorian stilled, closing his eyes, as his ordered bloody mind threw pieces into place and felt them chime with rightness.

“What?”

“Order and Compassion. Damn it.”

“Dorian?”

“Your blighted prophecy. _Kaffas_. I need to check something.”

“We’re having a moment here.”

“Yes. Well. We’ll have others. We’ll have an eternity of them, until we die blistering, fiery deaths. Come along.” He took Aran by the arm and guided him through the collected camps outside of the ruined fortress, his heart pounding in his fingertips as they made their way to his tent. “In.”

Aran looked at him strangely, but ducked inside and uttered a sharp gasp. “Bloody void,” he muttered, “you scared me.”

Dorian ducked in after and nodded to Cole, taking his unexpected appearance in stride. “We were wondering where you were.”

“Helping,” Cole said simply and Dorian kicked himself for not thinking of that sooner. Of course, Cole would be helping the wounded, the healers, the Wardens sorting through their physical and psychic pain. Cole was a better man than either of them, he thought ruefully, thinking of others before himself, before their… triumvirate, he supposed. _Tres membra_? _Domum trium_? Voidbound sinking ship of sin and treachery? “I did think,” he said, in answer to Dorian’s thoughts, “but there was so much pain-”

“It’s not a bad thing, Ocellus.” He patted Cole’s shoulder as he crawled past, opening a small locked box with his will and pulling out a sheaf of papers. “Here. ‘Hear my call, Sorrow and Pride, Compassion and Order.’ And the call was… ‘She is lost, darkening.’” He looked up, “What does it mean?”

“How should I know?” Aran squinted at him.

“ _You_ said it.”

“ _They_ said it.” He frowned, “You think… wait, you think Compassion and Order are…”

Dorian pointed between himself and Cole.

“But that’s… that’s…” Aran rubbed his temple. “Ah. Fuck. Sorrow.”

“Yes?”

“ _Abelas_. He’s in the Arbor Wilds. At least he was, in one world. He may be there now. His name means Sorrow- one of the sentinels who brought me back after Da-” He pressed his lips together, exhaling sharply. “From the Fade.”

“So who’s Pride? Varric? Vivienne? Some other-”

Aran turned his scowl to his palms. “We’ll see, won’t we?” He started when Dorian’s hand came to rest over his.

“This is good,” Dorian reminded him. “Figuring this out. This is good news.”

“Maybe so.”

“Certainly so. Let’s see.” He ticked off his list one his fingers, “Kill Corypheus, stop a war between the Qunari and the Imperium, curtail the plans of six more unhinged Magisters, save the world. We can do that. Nothing difficult whatsoever.”

“We _will_ do that,” Cole agreed.

“We will,” Aran echoed softly, relief tangible in his voice.

“We will, _if_ you listen to us. Let us guide you. That’s what She wants, isn’t it?” Dorian asked, certain of it even as he said the words. Order and compassion, compassion and order: two aspects that had been stripped from Aran, flayed from him as surely as his own flesh had been. Perspective to his knowledge. Conscience to his outrage. Thoughtfulness to his impulses.

Aran nodded slowly, uncertainly, gears within gears.

“Excellent. Because the Leader of the Inquisition being led about by a spirit and a Tevinter couldn’t possibly go wrong.”


	3. The Collected Works of Sister Kilaria de la Penza, Part Two

Aran felt his palm prickling with energy as he stood, warily eying the snow-flocked ruins around him. Low buildings toppled to so many blocks of stone and cracked wood, wet from melted snow and pouring rains. A few scattered fires lifted smoke into the low clouds overhead. He turned back to the elf standing patiently at his side. Once, Solas had been a source of solace. Healing. The promise of answers. Now, Aran felt the same nervous flicker in the mage’s presence as he did just before he sealed a rift - that careful, curious, wary wondering whether maybe, this time, things would go terribly wrong. “Why here?”

Solas spread his hands. “Haven is familiar. It will always be important to you.” He tilted his head, “I sat beside you while you slept, you know. Studying the anchor.”

Aran shifted uneasily. “That’s… creepy.”

Solas chuckled in that way that made it impossible to tell if the sound was based in humor or derision. “You were a mystery. You still are. I ran every test I could think of, searched the Fade for answers. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

“Cassandra’s like that with everyone.”

A real laugh now. "Yes."

The Temple of Sacred Ashes stood tall and proud in the snow, untouched except by years. Would the collected works still be inside? He pressed his hand to the massive door and edged it open. The hall stood empty, blessedly silent. He headed down the hallway towards the carved oaken door.

“You were never going to wake up. How could you? A mortal sent physically through the Fade. I was frustrated. Frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach. Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra… or she in me. I was ready to flee.”

“But you stayed.” He finished picking the lock and nudged the door open. A massive wooden table, carved, scuffed by years of elbows and papers. A long hall of shelves. He touched the titles with his gaze, willing the system of organization to make sense.

“I did. I told myself: one more attempt to seal the rifts. I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee.”

“Flee to where?” he asked, lightly tapping through the times as he searched the shelves.

“Somewhere farther away. Perhaps somewhere to research the Breach until I could find a way to seal it, preferably before it had a chance to affect me.” He laughed again at the derisive snort Aran expelled. “I never said it was a particularly brilliant plan. What are you looking for?”

“The Collected Poems of Sister Kilaria Montres de la Penza.” Aran frowned, “I was trying it find them before… Well. You know.”

“Over there, I believe,” Solas pointed, watching with his strange, owning curiosity. “What is it about these poems that draws you?”

“There are only two copies in the world.”

“So it’s the rarity.”

“No, it’s… She was cloistered outside of Halamshiral, you know. But these poems… no one I know has ever read them, seen them on paper, known their entirety or their context, but bits and pieces survive regardless. Phrases searing into people’s minds. ‘Hair of gold and face all beauty, neck of slender white, speech to ear and mind delightful - why, though, praise for thee? For in every part's perfection, not a fault hast thou, save thy protesting chastity jars with a form so fair…’” He cocked his head to the side, “She was excommunicated and cast out of the Chantry. Some say she died in poverty. Others surmise she was quietly put to death by the serving Divine’s Left Hand. For what? A few words? Were they about Andraste, as my old mentor hypothesized? Blaspheming by humanizing the holy? Were they about another Sister, or even the Divine herself? Forbidden romance? Does it matter?”

Solas lifted a brow. “You are concerned. For yourself, I wonder, or for the mage?”

“Neither. I didn’t know him when I first started looking for these.”

“But you knew yourself.”

Aran smiled wryly, “Not as well as I do now. Ah, you were right-“ he drew a slender volume from the shelf, brushing his fingers over it. “Look at this. How many people have actually read these words?”

“What will you do now that you can? Discover the reason for the Sister’s excommunication, solve the mystery?”

Aran carried the text to a table, “I’ll read the poems. And write them down so others can read them.”

“Yes, but to what purpose?”

“‘A cold sweat covers me, trembling seizes my body, and I am greener than grass. Lacking but little of death do I seem. Neither altar nor any holy place nor else was there from which we were absent. No grove, no sunrise, light or sound, but thou I seek, on a soft bed, delicate, where thy longing might lie free.’” Aran shook his head, “It exists because someone felt something powerful at one time. Like the memories that you visit in the Fade. Would you deny those memories to those who would seek them?”

“Not many do seek them.” Solas rested his hands at his back, the movement drawing Aran’s gaze to him, up to his thoughtful frown. “You simply wish the knowledge to be available, then.”

“Yes.”

“With no other reason?”

“I’ve never been particularly fond of secrets.” He traced the outline of the tome, “Do you mind if I read this? I won’t keep you.”

“I’ll stay. The quiet of this place is pleasant.”

Aran nodded, bending back to the text and allowed the words and images inscribe themselves upon his mind. Meadows and crushed hyacinths and scattered fruits from fallen bowls… He could taste the long-hidden words on the insides of his eyelids with every blink, and as he turned the last page, he looked up to see Solas peering at him curiously. “What?”

“You’re an intent reader.”

Aran shrugged.

“I suppose a single-minded attention like that might help to explain how your will exerts itself on the rifts. How you closed that first rift with a gesture.”

“You pushed my hand into it. It wasn’t my idea.”

“Nevertheless, you became the key to our salvation. And right then, I felt the whole world change.”

“Don’t you think you’re oversimplifying just a bit?”

“It would be difficult to do so.” He steepled his fingers as they walked through the empty paths around Haven. “You have _walked_ in the Fade. I have explored the Fade more than anyone alive, but even I can only visit in dreams. But you… you might have been able to visit me here while awake.”

“What do you mean?”

“Where did you think we were?”

Aran frowned. Haven. All untouched. The Temple. The works of Sister Kilaria. “This isn’t real. Any of it.”

“That’s a matter for debate. Probably best discussed after you _wake up_.”

 

* * *

 

Aran sat upright, sweat cold and dripping down his back. Outside, he could hear the subtle music of the camps: horses shifting in their sleep, men and women talking softly as they walked past the tent on patrol. His heart continued to pound as he took stock of his surroundings. Dorian sleeping soundly, one arm thrown over his head, fur pulled up to his chin against the cold. The shavings of wood in one corner that spoke of Cole’s recently having been there, likely departed on his nightly round of peace-keeping. _Just us. Just us and fifty scouts and a couple hundred infantry, knights, chevaliers, champions, mages, Templars, and Wardens._ He swallowed hard, rubbing his hands over his face.

“You’re letting in the cold.”

Aran glanced down, meeting dark, clever eyes heavy with shadow and slumber. “Sorry.”

“Something amiss?”

“Always.” He settled back to the sleeping mat and drew the furs back around them both, curling himself around Dorian. “Better now?”

“Lucky you didn’t stick your feet out. Cold feet are an indecency I simply will not tolerate.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do.”

“Dorian…”

“Hm?”

“When we get back to Skyhold… I just want you to know-“ Aran cleared his throat, “I don’t expect you to… I mean to say, I’d appreciate it if- but you don’t have to, of course-“

“Do you realize you’re not finishing your thoughts?”

Aran wrinkled his nose in frustration. “I like waking up, knowing you’re here.”

Dorian felt something spread inside of him; a gently melting sweetness as from fresh honeycomb by the warmth of the sun. “And why shouldn’t you? I’m certainly the first thing I like to see every morning.”

Aran ducked his head with a laugh. “Right. Well.”

Dorian waited, watching, that warm melting sensation sliding through him as the speed of glass. “Well?”

“Oh. Well.” Aran bit his lip, “I mean to say, I know you like your space for research and-“

“Yes?”

“But if you wanted to- I just thought, if you wanted to, it would be nice if you’d… feel free to use the… Well, Cassandra said I should take my old quarters back above the main hall, and there’s a lot of space up there.”

Dorian tucked his tongue behind his teeth, cavorting decadently in Aran’s discomfort. “You need assistance furnishing it?”

Aran scowled at him, “You’re not making this easy.” He cleared his throat, “Would you like to stay there. With me. Please.”

“Cohabitation?” Dorian drawled softly.

“There’s the word.”

“Tongues will wag.”

“If they wag any more, they’ll fall out of people’s heads.”

Dorian smirked, “Well. That _would_ quiet things down, wouldn’t it?”

“Substantially.” He wound his hands together, peering through his tangled moonlight-white bangs. “Thoughts?”

“I have a great deal more books than you.”

“Plenty of room.”

“Your decor is rather austere.”

“You can do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Within reason.”

“Ah. Fine print.” Dorian pressed his fingers to Aran’s lips, where the poor fellow had begun to tongue the small split there. “You’re certain.”

“ _I’m_ certain. It’s you who’s in question. I’ve lived with your books and detritus for years, remember. Well. Not _yours,_  but… I’m saying I have an idea of what to expect.”

“You think so.”

“I know I’d like to find out where I’m wrong.”

“The sign of a true leader.”

“Well?”

“I do rather like the view there. Long lines and subtle slopes.” 

Aran kissed the fingertips resting on his lips. “So you’ll consider it.”

”I might take some convincing.”


	4. Sketches of the Tres Milia Ludi

“Gods…” Aran dropped to a knee to peer up at the stone floating in midair.

“Don’t _touch_ it,” Dorian snapped. “Andraste’s tears, you haven’t the sense the Maker gave to goats.”

“I'll take that as a compliment. Lord Woolsley was no slouch.”

“Lord what?” Blackwall asked as Varric snorted.

At first, it had seemed like every other Venatori outpost in the Western Approach. More cultists to cull, an opportunity to ease Aran into working side by side with Blackwall, and to convince the rest of the traveling army that nothing had changed. That their Inquisitor was still out there working for them, just as he had before he'd died. Twice. Only once they'd passed the first guard outside the ruin, they'd found this... tableau. Every figure in the ruin was still, with the exception of their party. Demons arrested in the midst of attacks. Venatori mid-cast. Dorian leaned in to watch the unmoving pupil of a mage. “It’s as if they’re-“

“Living statues,” Varric muttered.

“Frozen in time, I was going to say.”

“Even the stones,” Aran’s fingers hovered over the falling shard of marble. “They’re silent.”

“Ugh, don’t start about stones talking,” Varric groaned. “Let’s just get out of here. It’s creepy.”

“Hear, hear,” Blackwall grunted, sidestepping a multi-armed demon in the midst of attacking a very perturbed-looking Venatori spellbinder.

“I’m inclined to agree-“ Dorian began, frowning as he spotted the block of stone in the spellbinder’s hands. “Wait, that there. That’s… I recognize those runes.”

“Ancient Tevene,” Aran said as he parsed his way to Dorian’s side. “Something about the movement of light, yes?”

Dorian nodded, “I think it belongs to some kind of key. Let’s see if we can’t find some more.”

“Andraste’s tits, why?” Varric groaned, “You want to _open_ the thing that did _this_?”

“Well… Yes. I think I might. Carefully.” He looked over to Aran, “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Aran rolled his eyes unhelpfully, “I’m the experiment, not the theorist.”

“Yes, of course, I was only thinking… they’re stopped in time. If I’m correct… there might be something to what’s happened here that we could use to-“

“What? Freeze me?” Aran cocked his head to the side, “Do I get to choose my pose, at least? I'm thinking something imposing, yet comfortable. Don’t want to pull a muscle like this poor bastard.” He poked the shoulder of a cultist who’d frozen in place while twisting into an attack with his staff. “He's going to have one awful backache when he starts moving again. Oh! Perhaps they could nail me to the bow of a boat.”

Dorian lifted one brow, peering across a still despair demon at Aran’s delighted smirk. “I was _going_ to say we could use some portion of the technique to hold you in one timeline. Not to this extent, obviously, but there are possibilities.”

“So I wouldn’t go off to the other places any longer? I’d be home, for good?” His voice quaked slightly on the last words, softened, his gaze drifting across the frozen sea of bodies mid-motion. “You think this could really be the key?”

“It’s worth looking into. Let’s see what we can find. More of these keystones, certainly. Any writings on the methods they used here.”

“Right. Because it seems to have worked so well for them,” Blackwall grunted.

“And I’m certain you’d blame the sword if an imbecile picked up yours and accidentally cut his own arm off.” Dorian sniffed and instantly regretted it. Maker, couldn’t the man at least roll in some potpourri now and again?

“You mean to say I’m not an imbecile?”

Drat. He would not be outwitted by a bear in dirty armor.

“Here- I’ve got another one.” Aran lifted a stone tablet from the hands of a Venatori mage. “Oddly light, aren’t they, for something made of stone?”

“They’re porous,” Varric said, “come from deep in the earth, usually coughed up by volcanoes. Easy to carve, shit at holding weight.”

“Careful, Varric, your dwarf is showing.”

“Dorian,” Varric feigned a whine, “Quicksilver’s looking at my dwarf again.”

“What on earth do you expect me to do about it?”

“You’re the one riding him. Rein him in.”

“I’m not a horse,” Aran protested. "And anyway, we take turns-"

Dorian chuckled, “No, no, Varric. Clearly, you’ve charmed him away with your consistently visible chest hair. I’ll bow out gracefully.”

Aran grinned as he wandered off into a side hall, calling back, “I do have a knack for getting into hairy situations.”

“Close shaves and all,” Varric rejoined.

"Oh! Come look at this!"

"Damn it, Aran, check for traps before you go poking at strange holes," Varric huffed, hurrying off after him.

* * *

 

As the Inquisitor and the dwarf settled into work picking the lock into the next room, Dorian settled onto a marble slab and eyed the suddenly silent Blackwall. “I can _see_ you thinking, Blackwall; it’s disconcerting and it looks painful.”

The Warden scowled.

“You’re wondering about the Inquisitor and I?”

“I was… unsure I'd heard correctly.”

“That depends largely upon what you think you heard. You have a question? Are your whiskers quivering with curiosity?”

“I would not pry into the Inquisitor's business.”

“Are you certain? I can draw diagrams.”

“No. Thank you.”

“I’d be open to diagrams. Something along the lines of the _Tres Milia Ludi,_ maybe,” Aran grinned as he joined them, hands in pockets, tongue in cheek.

“Do you see what you’ve started?” Dorian looked archly towards the Warden, who… was he blushing under that monstrosity of a beard?

“Later, though,” Aran nodded back towards the side hall. “We got the door open, but there’s some kind of barrier on the other side.”

“That’s my cue. If you’ll excuse me, Inquisitor, Ser Grimace.”

“I take it you’re familiar with the _Tres Milia?_ ” Aran asked as they followed him into the room. Varric was squinting at the glowing wall.

Blackwall cleared his throat, “Heard of it.”

“At Horton Hill? Weisshaupt? Troyes-et-Kyves?”

“...Could be.”

“Can you blast it?” Varric was asking.

“If we all want to resemble the Inquisitor’s palm,” Dorian murmured, eyeing the so-called barrier. “Honestly, Varric. All that time with the Champion of Kirkwall and you can’t tell the difference between a barrier and a ward.”

“That was her job,” Varric shrugged.

“And you, Aran: I’m surprised at you. How many years have you spent in Minrathous?”

"Like he said," Aran grinned. “Magic’s your job. We opened the door.”

“Don’t hear us asking you to know the difference between a four or nine block tumbler,” Varric agreed, smirking.

“Just… stand back and let me work,” Dorian sighed. The more he looked at it, the more his head hurt. The ward was rather impressively convoluted. Intentionally so. “This could take some time.”

“Time for a leak?” Varric asked. “Time for lunch?”

“Possibly both.”

“Great. I’ll start a fire.”

Dorian found a place to sit and write the sigils of the ward down. The cloying, thick smoke of Aran's herbs wafted across parchment. "Elsewhere, please."

"Right, sorry," Aran wandered back a way, dropping into the sand with a slight huff. 

"I've been meaning to thank you for what you did," Blackwall said quietly. 

"Which thing was that?" Aran asked.

“At Adamant. Someone I knew once described it to me. ‘Adamant is, and always will be, the Order,’ he said. ‘A guardian on the edge of the abyss. The lone soul that stares into oblivion and doesn’t waver.’ That’s what Warden-Commander Clarel tried to be. What they all tried to be. Her Wardens never wavered. They went to their deaths willingly. They died for us. And Corypheus twisted their sacrifice to make it his own.”

"Well, we stopped him. He didn't get his army. And we saved most of the Wardens."

"But not all of them. And they died thinking they were doing something good. There’s no one to blame but Corypheus. Even Clarel's intentions were righteous. Her desire to protect was so great, it led her astray. It’s not right. To want to do good, to be good, and have that turned against you."

"...no. It isn't." Aran tapped his ashes into the sand, drawing deep. 

"Don't think we don't all know that the same's happened to you. I know our soldiers and our allies. Corypheus made more enemies than he knows when he sent that scab to take you out at Skyhold. And now, after this, the Wardens have renewed purpose in destroying him. Let him come, I say. I swear, I'll take the twisted bastard down, even if I have to die to do it."

"Don't go to that fate too eagerly. It's what he wants."

"I'll do what has to be done. As you will." Blackwall settled to a knee in the sand at Aran's side. "The people flock to your banner, eager to fight for the Herald of Andraste. Their faith is a leash and your Inquisition has taken hold of it." 

"If their faith is a leash, it's because the Chantry collars them."

"Interesting words for an Andrastian archivist. Tell me honestly, are you what they say you are?"

"Are you?" Aran asked softly. 

"No," Blackwall said gruffly. "They give me more credit than I'm due. I'll say as much to anyone."

"On that, at least, we can agree," Aran sighed. "I wish they'd understand that I'm really nobody."

"Oh, you're somebody, all right. Don't you see what you are to them? Without you, they're consumed by despair. We all are. I've seen it. The months you were gone, it was like the hope had gone out of the world. They need you to be Andraste's messenger. It gives them hope."

"Even if I'm not."

"The truth doesn't matter."

Aran shook his head, "It's _all_ that matters. Someone lies for a good reason, another to hurt someone, it all ends up in the same place. In the end, the betrayed lose faith, lose the ability to trust. Even if they never learn they were lied to, they'll feel it - that duplicity working on them like the sea on a shoreline. They'll know something's amiss. Maybe they'll blame themselves, or find a scapegoat - cast their fury on some other target. And so the broken words echo on." He scowled, "They can believe what they like. I won't take that from them. But I'm not going to lie to them, either."

"You don't think that will hurt them, you telling them that you think their faith is misplaced?"

"I don't." Aran shrugged, "I may not be Andraste's Herald, but I will be what they need. Does it really matter why I lead them, so long as it's to protect Thedas and end the threats to them and theirs? Isn't it better to have the people you look up to, who lead you, tell you the truth? Not just about who they are, but also why they're asking you to risk your life? Isn't it better to die knowing what you're dying for?" 

Blackwall looked away. 

"Think of Clarel. She was working with false information, but she told the Wardens what she believed was the truth. Don't think of what went wrong; think of their intention. Their sacrifice. Honor their selflessness. Would any of it mean near the same thing if they hadn't known what they were doing? Hadn't known why they'd been asked to give their lives? Do you know how many people won't trust the Wardens now, because that sacrifice was based on a lie?"

"Clarel made mistakes, but she’s a great woman. It’s not the armor or the trappings of the Order. It’s not the Joining. At the heart of it, a Warden is a promise. To protect others. Even at the cost of your own life.”

"Yes," Aran agreed. "And to stand for the truth, even when it's terrifying." He frowned, “Cassandra told me you’re a Grey Warden Recruiter. What's that like?”

“It's not easy finding people willing to shoulder such a terrible responsibility.”

Dorian glanced at them. Tension etched in the air between them as surely as the ward blocked their path ahead. “Here I thought you poked around prisons, hunting for murderers desperate to escape the noose.”

“ _That's_ what you think of the Wardens?” Blackwall snarled, scowling at Dorian with just the same amount of disgust and derision as usual.

“It's not such a terrible thing,” he rejoined neatly as Aran‘s gaze bounced back and forth between them. “Some of my best friends are murderers.”

“They are men and women, atoning for what they've done by giving of themselves. They fight for people like you. People in silks and velvets. Who talk and judge.”

“Who's judging now?”

“I know your kind.”

“Which kind is that? Mages? Tevinters? Ridiculously handsome men?”

“Privileged, entitled nobles who think they not only know better than everyone else, but that they _are_ better, too,” Blackwall snapped, then flushed, glancing to and away from Aran. “Apologies, Inquisitor.”

“You’d be better served apologizing to him,” Aran said softly, watching thoughtfully. “Dorian has a better temperament than mine for sweeping stereotypes.”

Blackwall gritted his teeth. “I didn’t mean to offend you, my lord-“

“For fuck’s sake, man,” Aran snarled. “I’m not your lord. I’m not your worship. I’m not your bloody anything. But I couldn’t help who I was born to any more than Dorian could, or you could. It’s what you do, the choices you make, that make you who you are. You should know that better than anyone.”

“Hey, guys, what’d I miss?” Varric asked as he returned with an armful of sticks.

Blackwall started, flush-faced. "You-"

"Oh, yeah. I see you. And that's all I'm saying about it. Now I'm going to scout the rest of this Void-touched cult-hole," Aran rose, brushing sand from his leathers. "See if I can't find any more of those fucking keystones."

"I'll help-"

"You've earned a break, Varric. Just give a shout when there's food or the ward's down. Whichever comes first." 

Dorian watched him stalk out through the door in a cloud of his own smoke with sand raining from his thigh sheaths.

Varric huffed, dropping the ersatz firewood. "I can't trust you two to keep your shit together for a couple minutes?"

"He is what they say, isn't he?" Blackwall asked gruffly.

"What's that?" Dorian listened intently for any sounds of trouble further into the ruins. 

"Honorable. He's honorable." 

It could have been the light or the twisting energy of the ward, but he could have sworn he saw tears on Blackwall's cheeks. 


	5. still of night

“In the sands beyond the ornate portal, the Inquisition’s army had disappeared among the dunes. They were camped somewhere out there, the lights from their fires giving an eerie glow to the sands that surrounded them. Inside the frozen ruins, another campfire burned - this one small and singular - a reprieve from the darkness for four heroes-”

“Four heroes?” Aran asked, squinting through his wreath of smoke. He was surrounded by pieces of parchment and open books, reading by firelight, with the statue-still outlines of their enemies behind him. “What are you on about now?”

Sometimes Varric wished he could illustrate in addition to writing. Some of these scenes were just too perfect. “Us. The four of us. We are heroes.”

“ _You’re_ a hero, Varric,” the Herald of Andraste smiled tiredly. “That’s what matters.”

“And so am I.” Dorian waved his hand absently, sending a glowing ball of light to bob just beside Aran’s head to help him read in the dark. “Someone less heroic would not be researching the nonsense of madmen in the dark and dirt.”

“Sand.”

“Sand _is_ dirt, only coarser and more deeply invasive.” Dorian eyed his nails distrustfully, “In fact, someone less heroic would insist we take all this research back to Skyhold. Where there is wine. And a bed. And wine.”

“Right, but then if we found we’d missed something, we’d have to trek all the way back out here.”

“Yes, Amatus, but _wine_.”

“It seems to me,” Aran murmured wryly, rubbing his temple, “that you’ve brought an endless supply of your own.”

“Perhaps you’ve read enough for the night. You seem to lose your temper when you read by firelight. I should never have mentioned my suspicion about this work. I should have taken some of their papers quietly home and extrapolated on them there.” Dorian sighed, “Foolishness.”

“‘As Sparkler fretted over the lack of amenities in the hostile Venatori outpost-‘”

“Are there _friendly_ Venatori outposts?” Dorian asked with a sniff.

Varric sighed, putting down his pen, “Not that I know of.”

“Then why do you need to _say_ ‘hostile’? It seems you could replace ‘hostile’ with ‘Venatori’ to much the same effect. The Venatori hyenas. The Venatori wind sweeping down through the Venatori mountain pass. The use of an additional term seems superfluous.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“Quite. And while I’m at it, Varric, I want a new nickname.”

Varric laughed quietly, **“** What's wrong with ‘Sparkler’? Not colorful enough for you?”

 **“** You must know me better now. Or does the moniker you gave me five minutes after we met still apply?”

 **“** I have the eyes of a storyteller. It's a gift.”

 **“** So, I'm a bit of light you stick in a windowsill to impress passersby? All flash, no heat?” Dorian narrowed his eyes, “Hmm… that's actually pretty clever.”

 **“** See? Embrace your place in the universe, Sparkler.”

“No heat, eh?” Aran’s lips curved, the shadows from the flames and bobbing lights making him look almost menacing.

“Don’t help, Quicksilver.”

Aran bit his lip on a chuckle and turned a page in the book on his lap.

“You alive over there, Warden?” Varric asked, peering at Blackwall’s profile. Since the afternoon, the Warden had been weirdly quiet, not even raising to Dorian’s more pronounced pokes at his pride.

“He’s surrounded by men with pens,” Dorian minced slyly. “Likely seething with jealousy over his inability to understand, let alone replicate, the strange symbols we’re all scrawling.”

Varric waited for the rejoinder. The snarl. Blackwall remained still as the surrounding cursed demons and mages, his face a mask of shadow and beard, his eyes reflecting flames. The quick shift of Dorian’s brows showed the mage had also noticed Blackwall’s lack of verbal sparring and was less than pleased. Concerned, even. Softer than he wanted people to think, that one. “How do you like being described, Blackwall? As ‘grizzled’ or ‘masculine’?"

 **“** Do I really have a choice?”

 **“** No, I was just being polite. Going with ‘grizzled’, then.” Varric cleared his throat, then recited, “‘His eyes reflecting the flames of their campfire, the grizzled Warden looked on with disdain.’”

Blackwall tested the edge of his sword with his thumb before running a sharpening stone along its length.

At least he was looking somewhere other than the fire. “Don’t suppose you have a name for that sword, do you?”

“If I must, to be left in peace. What will you have?”

“That’s a personal decision. I wouldn’t want to foist something on you.”

Blackwall uttered a guttural sigh, “Slasher? Gasher? Pokey?”

There was some play, albeit less than Varric had come to expect of him. Still off his game. “Let’s go with Pokey. You seem like a Pokey guy.”

“Fine,” Blackwall huffed. “Do what you will.”

“‘The honorable Pokey soon would rest in its sheath, the only hero with the sense to get some shut-eye.’” And they were back to silence. Pages flipped. Edges were sharpened. Herbs wafted. Smoke curled. Fire flickered. And all around them, their enemies watched in stillness, likely bored out of their minds. “Maybe we need a story about how it earned the name Pokey.”

Silence. The crackle of flames.

“These books you write, Varric,” Dorian shuffled a few pages of notes, looking for a spare inch of parchment, glancing up with feigned apathy, “Who actually reads them?”

 **“** Why, anyone with some taste and a lust for adventure.”

 **“** That's a lot of people?”

“Enough to keep me in boots and bolts.”

“Aha, and those cost you a penny or two, do they?” Dorian leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee, “Tell me, do the southern masses even know how to read?”

Varric snorted, “Elitist.”

 **“** Yes?” Dorian arched a brow, “I left my homeland, Varric, I didn't up and turn peasant.” He glanced towards Blackwall. They both waited. Silence. Was he sore at Sparkler? Or still irked about the Inquisitor?

“I like your stories, Varric,” Aran yawned. “You called me tall once. I’ve often thought about having that passage embroidered on a throw pillow.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Everyone looks tall to him,” Blackwall muttered.

“Bestill my heart, it attempts humor,” Dorian rolled his eyes, “And Aran’s judgment cannot be trusted. For one, he’s mad; for two, he reads the same abominable swill that Cassandra reads-”

“He’s the Inquisitor,” Blackwall rumbled. “Show some respect.”

“ _Respect_? After seeing him elect to continue reading after- what was it, Amatus- ‘her petticoats dropped to the ground, rustling like a cockroach in a sugar bowl’?”

“How do you _stop_ reading after something like that?” Aran demanded incredulously, looking up.

“‘He leaned in so close he inspired moisture.’”

“You’re kidding," Varric grinned. 

“‘She squealed, as though she’d found a frog nestled in her finery-‘“

Varric looked towards Aran who had very studiously dipped his nose back into his books, “Please tell me this is a joke.”

Aran flushed in the firelight, mumbling, “I don’t see why it’s anyone’s business or why you need to critique my-”

“‘Heat exploded from her core, and the magic flared one final time, in a bright curtain of love-’”

Aran scowled. “That’s the last time I loan you anything when you’re pining about boredom.”

“They’re _so_ terrible.”

“And yet you memorized them.”

Dorian opened his mouth- shut it. “Certain turns of phrase simply make an impression, like barbs. Or fishhooks.”

“Why would you read about women?” Blackwall asked quietly. Froze. Looked as perplexed that he’d asked aloud as Dorian looked at having heard him. “It’s none of my business. My apologies. I shouldn’t have-”

“Personally, I get bored of the jousting metaphors,” Aran muttered.

Varric goggled, blinking. “After cockroach dresses, you’d think a little jousting would be a relief.”

“And primarily,” Aran continued, “I don’t have the luxury of traveling through time and worlds with a library at my back, so I borrow. Usually from Cassandra or Josie or Isabela or Sera.”

“And the other me’s?” Dorian quirked a brow.

Aran snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“What? They don’t have libraries?”

"Not for- Dorian, I'll quote you to you." Aran smiled softly, the expression warming his eyes, “'Why bother reading about it when you can live it?'”

Dorian pursed his lips, half-smiling. “I see. Do tell-“

“That’s it.” Blackwall stood up from his place by the fire, “It’s late enough to warrant a bedroll.”

“An invitation I will decline, Ser Grimace, as you’ve still refused to honor us with the task of bathing.”

Blackwall grunted what sounded suspiciously like a swear under his breath and stalked off to the far corner of the room. Dorian watched him go, then turned to Aran, “Go.”

“What?” The Inquisitor exhaled a stream of smoke and tapped his ashes into the sand, frowning. “Where?”

“Go and talk to him. He’s clearly miserable.”

“You go talk to him.”

“He respects you, Maker knows why. Go be nice.”

“I have been nice.” His frown deepened as Dorian stared at him, “I have!”

“You’ve been sulking since you met him. And you went whistling off when he tried to apologize-“

“For calling _you_ an entitled prig.”

“Well, I am. And so are you.”

Aran narrowed his eyes. “I. Am. _Not_ ,” he peered down the length of his nose at Dorian in the most supercilious pose Varric had ever witnessed from him.

“You very much _are_ , your Worship. Perhaps more now than you were before. Go do the dewy-eyed thing, where you melt people’s hosen off and make them feel all warm and fuzzy.”

“I do no such thing.”

“You’re a gifted fuzzy-feelings invoker and you know it. Shoo.” Dorian lightly touched Aran’s chin to draw his gaze back when it attempted to skip away, scowling. “He isn’t here to fix it for you, but you know he’d tell you the same thing I am. You said you’d listen.”

“I _am_ listening; I’m _listening_.” Grumbling, Aran tapped out his pipe and dumped his books into Dorian’s lap. “Helladius,” he muttered as he stood.

“Hm?”

“It was an experiment to hasten time. This… all of this mess around us is a result of a countermeasure, sealing the entire event in order to control the parameters and prevent the spread of the spell should it go awry.” He pointed to the papers wedged between the book’s pages, “Anything else we can find in this hand, let’s collect. We’ll take it back to Skyhold. If there’s an outline of the technique used in the countermeasure, we could possibly use it.” He sighed, “Nice and fuzzy?”

“Hm- quite-“ Dorian had already disappeared into the notes he’d been handed. “Ah, now this is fascinating…”

Aran met Varric’s gaze with a shrug. “Make sure you put that in your book. The Tevinter is making me keep the peace.”

Varric nodded, “Noted.” He cocked his head to the side, “Him _and_ the Kid, huh?” Watched Aran’s eyes widen, “I’ll leave that out, it’s just… You really are a glutton for punishment, you get that, right?”

Aran shrugged, “Either I had to learn to like it, or run away, I guess. Haven’t managed to run yet.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Pretty shit and pretty splendid.” He frowned, “You okay?”

“Hey, I like the Kid, but even so- I guess I never thought... Ah, it doesn't matter what I think. Not really. But everyone else? I doubt they'll feel the same. Cassandra, for instance. I don’t want to be there when she finds out, and she _will_ find out. I don’t think any of you will want to be there, either.”

Aran frowned into the darkness, “One thing at a time.”

“Yeah, if only we could manage that.” Varric glanced over at the top of Dorian's slicked head. "Really gets engrossed in his reading, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"Okay. Well. I'm in your corner, Inquisitor. Whatever happens." He paused, "Even if we have to blame it all on Dorian and feed him to the sharks. Put him on a boat to nowhere. Paint all his fancy silks with stew. Man, he really gets into it."

Aran laughed, "Use this power wisely."

"Are you kidding? This is great. Is there anything he responds to at all when he's like this?"

"Yes." Aran turned with a smile and walked off in the direction Blackwall had gone. 

Good for him, Varric thought, watching. Wondering. 'I know', he'd said. Knew what? Whatever it was, he'd spooked Blackwall. Damned hard to spook a Grey Warden, especially this one. And Dorian was right; they needed to settle it, whatever it was. A spooked Blackwall wasn't going to be much good at protecting any of them. Let them hash it out and keep their secrets. He'd find out eventually. He always did. "Want some wine?" he asked. Dorian flipped a page and took a quick note. "Quicksilver is dancing naked." Nothing. He'd figure this out, too. Good. He'd been needing some puzzles.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric POV is hard for me. Any advice/thoughts are welcome. I am open to fixing and finagling. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Note: I read a number of terrible romance novel passages to quote from here and it appears to have affected my prose...


	6. A sword sheathed in sand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Dorian's insistence, Aran confronts his issues with Blackwall. Dark, frustrated, brooding men talk about their goddamn feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I use some of the game dialogue, but changed quite a bit of it up to suit things. I do that a lot, but since this is actually a whole scene's worth of conversation sourced and messed with, I thought I should give big and obvious nods to the awesome DAI writers. So. Nods.

Aran eyed the shadowed figure in the corner. Broad shoulders. The gleam of plate mail resting to the side, preparation for as quick an arming as could be managed. Shoulder length black hair slick with sweat, still retaining the general shape of the inside of a helm. Blackwall, he called himself.

_ My friend _ , he thought, clenching his teeth.  _ Who is this imposter? Do you know about him? And where the hell are you? _

“So you’ve come.”

“Dorian tells me you saved his life.” Aran settled his thumb into his belt, fingers absently lingering on the sheath of one of his daggers. “Thank you for that.”

The man who would have been Blackwall didn’t turn. “I only did what needed to be done.”

“Still.”

“Say what you’ve come to say.”

“Very well. Blackwall: I know him. Knew him. In another time and place. You play your part well. Perhaps, if I hadn’t, I’d have believed you, too.”

Silence. 

“Am I wrong?” Aran asked quietly. Somehow he hoped that he was. That this effrontery to his friend’s memory wasn’t. That it was an error. That something here had shifted and he was the one who was wrong. He was used to that. “I know some of these things… the things I’ve learned, they don’t always translate. There was a world where I wasn’t me. My family existed, my home, but not… me. And there are worlds where I’m there, but different. The world- the time- being different made me different. If that’s the case-”

“I am not Blackwall. I never was Blackwall. Warden Blackwall is dead, and has been for years.”

Aran felt himself darken. The shadows stretched around him, seeping into him, making him heavy enough to sink into the sands. His dagger's hilt was a welcome pressure against his palm. Dead. Blackwall was dead. He eyed a small dip in the sand to the left of the plate mail. Breathed out slowly.  _ Mother guide you, my friend; you were too good for this world _ . “Tell me.”

“I didn’t take Blackwall’s life. I know that’s what you’re thinking. I traded his death. He wanted me for the Wardens, but there was an ambush. Darkspawn. He was killed. I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man. That’s what I told myself. As Blackwall, I was something. I had a purpose. I could make amends.”

“For what?”

“Why are you here?” the false Warden asked, snarling, like a kicked dog, “What does it matter?”

“He was my friend and I trusted him. I need to understand. I need to know what to do.”

“I’ll help you understand, then. I am Thom Rainier. I gave the order to kill Lord Callier, his entourage including his family, and I lied to my men about what they were doing. When it came to light, I ran.”

“Coward,” Aran spat. 

“Yes. Those men, my men, paid for my treason while I was pretending to be a better man. This is what I am. A murderer. A traitor. A coward. A monster. I knew you could see it, from that first moment. You stepped into the courtyard at Adamant and looked into me, saw me for the fraud I am. I knew then that it was over- that it was only a matter of time.”

Aran stared at the back of his head. Grease and shame. Sand sticking to his skin. “You said he wanted you for the Wardens.”

“We met at a tavern while I was on the run,” he recited, guttural. “I was nothing, a waste of life, but he wanted to recruit me. We headed to Val Chevin for the Joining, but Blackwall insisted on making a stop along the way. An old ruin from one of the previous Blights. He said it led to the Deep Roads. I was to go down alone, find a darkspawn, and fill a vial with its blood. When I returned, I found the Warden ambushed by more of the creatures. He took a blow for me.” He shuddered, “He shouldn’t have died. It should have been me.”

The number of times he’d been just where Rainier had been. Gaping in shock as Blackwall slammed into the path of certain death and wryly reminded him ‘It’s not only you that flanks them, ye daft pup.’ Never a shade of fear or regret. Certainty. That was Blackwall’s gift. Certainty that so long as he put others before himself, he could never go wrong. Something to aspire to. “It was a heroic act,” he said gruffly, “stepping between you and a darkspawn.” 

“I wasn’t worthy.”

“Clearly, he disagreed.”

Rainier grimaced, continuing, “He would have wanted me to carry on to Val Chevin, I’m certain. I convinced myself that I couldn’t go to the Wardens; without Blackwall, there was no proof that I’d been recruited, that I didn’t kill him. Later, I learned I probably could have done on his reputation alone, but by then it was too late. I’d made my choice. So Rainier died and Blackwall lived.”

“ You both died. What you are now? What remains? That’s what I don’t know .” Aran looked away when those pitiful green eyes darted to meet his. “What were you before? A mercenary?”

“I was a captain in the Orlesian army. Well-regarded, respected, but it wasn’t enough. One mistake. One  _ choice, _ ” he corrected himself harshly, “and everything I worked for fell apart. I betrayed the empire and assassinated a general; all for gold. The man was General Vincent Callier. My employer was a chevalier, Robert Chapuis. Ser Robert believed that Grand Duke Gaspard was the rightful ruler of Orlais and would eventually take the throne. He thought that by eliminating one of Celene’s loyal supporters, he might endear himself to the true emperor. I can’t say if Robert’s plan would have worked. I didn’t care. There was good coin offered and I took it.” He scowled at his hands, “A mercenary. You’re right. That’s what I became.” 

“So it didn’t work. The plot.”

“No. And by the time Ser Robert’s involvement was uncovered, I was long gone. Of course, the Grand Duke disavowed any knowledge of the act and publicly condemned it. Robert killed himself. Poison in his wine. Another victim of the Great Game.”

A victim? Hardly. A coward, certainly. Having other men fight his battles and then escaping this world before he could be held accountable. “ What did you promise your men to ensure their help? ”

“Nothing more than usual. They trusted me without question, just as your men trust you. They didn’t know who they were attacking. I told them it was an important mission.”

Aran frowned,  “An important mission to slaughter mindlessly. ”

“I didn’t know Callier would be traveling with his family. I assumed only soldiers, armed guards. My men had been told to eliminate everyone. They’d seen war. They thought they were defending their country.”

“By murdering children?”

“No one likes to think about that, but it’s names that carry power in this world. Bloodlines. Heirs. No matter how leaders like Celene pretend the Game is played, that’s how real war is waged.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“In Orlais, it is. And if you think Celene and her harpies haven’t benefited from something just like it, you’re fooling yourself. War is unfair, and the sky is blue. Another man or woman is out there right now doing something despicable so some noble can have a bigger riverboat or another orchard.”

“ They’re out for themselves, as you were.  You didn’t care what Robert Chapuis would have gained, you said so yourself. That isn’t the Game at work.  That was a choice, your choice, so you could have something bigger. More gold. More power. You're no different.”

“You’re right.” Thom Rainier laid his blade aside, flat in the sand.

Aran stared hard at his profile. Shame, yes, and self-reproach. Guilt. He knew he was at fault, even if he still shared his blame with others. Maybe they were to blame, but not for Rainier's actions. Aran gritted his teeth, “My men trust me, you said. They follow me because they’re defending their countries. That’s war, you say. But I can’t lead that way. I won’t. And anyone who tells me that they would do something they find abhorrent because what- they were following orders? They can’t think for themselves? They don’t belong in the Inquisition. Armies are weapons; they can’t wield themselves. But they’re weapons made of minds. Choices. Banding together.” He met Rainier’s eyes, “Dorian told me that you work with the recruits. Tell them that, will you? And tell Cullen if something changes. I won’t lead an army in slaughter.” 

Warily, “Your Worship-”

Aran swung, quick and sharp, his knuckles smashing into Rainier’s too-sturdy jaw, but the false Warden winced, staggering back. 

“Aran!” Dorian shouted, the shock in his voice echoing across to them.

“I’m done.” Aran threw his hands aloft for Dorian to see. “Why the hell do you think I surround myself with honorable people?” he asked Rainier quietly. “They see the world as I can’t. The things I’ve done in the times I’ve been- some of it would turn your stomach. I own that. Here or not, I know what’s inside of me. What I’m capable of. It isn’t holy. It isn’t _good_. But they are. He is. And the Inquisition’s lucky for that. For them. Not me.” Carefully, Aran lowered his hands. Offered one, “It’s good to meet you, Thom.”

Rainier stared at that offered hand. The mark in Aran’s palm flashed and shimmered away. “I’m not worthy.” 

“So be fucking worthy. That’s up to you. Blackwall thought you were worth something. Who are either of us to gainsay him?” He looked down at his hand then back up, “Well?”

Hands clasped, they eyed each other. “I’d have liked to know him better.”

“He was a good man.”

“That much, I learned.”

“We'll trade stories.” Aran studied him, “Truth matters.”

“Aye, it does.” He met that study unflinching.

“I owe as much to you. I’m a killer and a thief, working the will of a goddess who’s been imprisoned so long she probably wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she got out. Not Andraste. Mythal. Hook, line, and sinker. Because I made choices. Choices to survive, to get home, to do what I can to stop what I’ve seen. That’s who I am. Who are you? Who will you be?”

Rainier frowned. “I’m going to tell the Wardens the truth. And admit what I’ve done to the constables of Orlais.”

“Take the Joining?”

“If it’s offered.”

“Good.” Aran ducked his head in a half nod. “I apologize for the punch.”

“More surprising than anything. You could work on your unarmed combat.”

“I’ll take that under advisement. Until then, pick up your sword.”

“Why?”

“Because Dorian’s going to break these seals before we leave this place. He can’t not. And when he does- all these creepy, currently still things around us are probably going to come at us swinging. I’d like them dead before that happens.”

“That,” Rainier said softly, “I can agree to.”

“Then I think we’ll get along just fine.” For now. 


	7. Bechard's Needle

Whatever reception Dorian had been anticipating upon their return to Skyhold, it hadn’t included the ululating bray of bagpipes and the thrumming beat of drums. “Andraste’s tears, they’ve brought the beastly things back. This is your fault,” he informed Aran as they dismounted. “They did this at your funeral, too. Can you imagine being forced to endure all that keening in addition to this cacophony? Or perhaps because of it?”

Aran slanted him a wry smile, “It’s a difficult instrument to master.”

“So that’s why it sounds like a thousand tortured kittens? These are amateurs?”

The heathen laughed, “No- these are actually quite good. They must be from the Marches.”

Dorian heaved a sigh at the glint of glee in those otherworldly eyes. “Maker preserve us from the ones you consider terrible.” But Aran was here. Alive. It wasn’t another funeral dirge. And that made the music a trifle less grating. Everything was a trifle less grating with this mad fellow who loved him - who could have imagined - grinning into the sky, all unwashed, peeling off layers of road-mucked armor like a child returning home from a day at play.

The army had gone on ahead of them from the Western Approach, but they’d caught up easily enough; a small party could always travel faster than a horde. Despite the careful harmony that had been in place since the ruins, or perhaps to maintain it, Blackwall had peeled off to remain with the army as it began its slow wind up the mountain. They would arrive in a week, perhaps less, which did nothing to explain the courtyard full of coaches or the lines of tents that encircled the fortress.

“What is going on here?” Aran asked, shucking his leather jerkin. It peeled at his shirt, tugging the collar open to reveal a dirt-smeared neck streaked with scars.

Dorian longed to lean in to scent the stink of the road and horses, lick the splash of mud from under Aran’s jaw, and feel the grit of it against his tongue. Then Aran had the audacity to strip the shirt as well, leaning over to submerge his head in a trough alongside the horses; he came up dripping and shivering, scrubbing his hands through his soaked ivory hair. His back- muscles stretching, ribs visible with the bend of his torso, the tendrils of scars pulling at his flesh like fingertips- Dorian pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, dragging his attention back to the formerly wide open lower courtyard. “I couldn’t begin to guess. Preparations for the army’s return, I suppose?”

“Don’t we wish,” Varric muttered.

“You know something,” Dorian accused as Aran finished scrubbing his shirt in the water, wrung it out, and slapped the wet cotton back on inelegantly. It formed little craters of cloth where it stuck to his skin- the narrow shoulders and lean musculature. “Maker save me,” he whispered.

“What?” the insufferable waking dream asked with a tilt of his gloriously tousled head.

Dorian followed the conniving little drop of water as it slid from Aran’s hair, down his jaw to his neck and nestled into the wet fabric at his chest. He quirked his brows slightly with a hum he hoped sounded disapproving rather than wanton. For self-preservation, he looked away again. At the top of the curving stairs, on the stones where Aran had first accepted the title of Inquisitor, two familiar figures caught his interest. Leliana - calm and unruffled. Josie - clasping a hand to her mouth as she caught sight of Aran. When Aran lifted a hand in salutation, Dorian watched her eyes glisten and threaten to spill over. He could well understand. He felt much the same inclination to weep, though perhaps not for the same reasons.

“Andraste’s tits, Quicksilver, go talk to Ruffles before you cause another international incident,” Varric slipped up to his side, taking Dorian by the arm, “and Sparkler, you come with me.”

“What for?”

“Have you no sense of adventure?”

“None, whatsoever.”

“Cahoots: I sense them,” Aran muttered.

“As do I,” Dorian agreed and yet he allowed himself to be pulled away as Aran took the stairs two at a time to throw Josephine in the air. He could hear her squealing about the cold and wet as Varric tugged him toward the tavern. “They’d better not toss my research crates around this time the way they did the tablets from the Emerald Graves. I’ll be terribly put out. Are we drinking?” he inquired, pleased at the prospect.

“Sure.” Varric saluted Cabot with a couple fingers and they were readily supplied with something that smelled strongly alcoholic and vaguely reminiscent of spoiled milk. Still, it arrived in a mostly clean glass; a step up from what had been available for the previous month on the road. Dorian sipped and found the liquor to be deeply toxic and thick enough to coat a shield with. Palatable enough for Skyhold. “Ruffles is throwing a ball.”

Dorian swallowed, carefully setting the glass down. His throat burned with the drink. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid this swill’s already gone to my head.”

“Yeah, I know it’s nuts. But she already sent out invitations. Says it’s necessary to prove everything’s back on an even keel. Let people see he’s really back.”

“He has a pulse. He’s not-“ he dropped to sotto voce, “he’s not what they know. Maker’s breath, Varric, we don’t even know how long he’ll be here before… Didn’t you tell her?”

The dwarf shrugged, “I told her what I just told you: I think it’s nuts.”

“And of course she’d be a fool not to understand the subtleties inherent in your deduction,” Dorian sucked his teeth. “Why are you telling me? Specifically? Now?”

“Because she’s going to tell him, and you’re going to have to help him to not lose his shit.”

Dorian laughed, head back, air rushing in and out of his lungs at a fantastic pace.

“It’s not that funny.”

“It’s the best joke I’ve ever heard you tell.”

Varric grimaced.

“What precisely do you think this ‘loss of shit’ might entail?” he asked as he regained his breath.

“You know… Punching Blackwall. Stabbing tied up and subdued Venatori we might have used for intel. Threatening to murder travelers in the night.”

“Essentially everything since he’s returned, then?”

Varric sighed. “He’s been through some things. I get that. We all do. And I don’t want to shove him out in front of those frilly geese any more than you do. But they’re coming, flapping and honking, and we need to be prepared.”

“Why me?”

“They trust you,” Varric said simply, gesturing lightly towards the people around them in the tavern. “They know you and the Inquisitor were close before. They watched you grieve. They saw you running in and out of the war room like you were on fire, working your sparkly fingers to the bone. Then there’s the nobility who are coming; they trust you, too, because they see you as one of them, even if they don’t want to admit it. And Quicksilver not only trusts you, but listens to you.”

It was a nice little speech, Dorian thought, until the end. Those were the words he’d been fearing: _He listens to you_. Of course, he’d asked for as much. It was imperative that Aran did so, and not only because it was part of his elven-based prophecy. For all that he was here, he wasn’t… not entirely. He’d seen too many possibilities first hand, so many grim. He needed them - Cole and himself - to help him see things as he used to. And yet... Dorian frowned into the wine glass, “That’s the problem.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Someone intelligent would cozy up to the Inquisitor if they could. It would be foolish not to. He can open doors, literal and metaphysical. Get you whatever you want. Shower you with gifts and power. That’s what they’ll say.” He swallowed uneasily. “I’m the magister who’s using him.”

“That’s a long con you’re taking credit for.”

“Angling, that’s what they’ll think. Then he died and I had to recover, preserve my place in the hierarchy. Now he’s back and I’m in the perfect position to reap the rewards.” He sipped. The liquor may as well have been molten lead. “Don’t misunderstand. I don’t care what they think about me. I care what they think about _us_.”

Varric smiled warmly.

“Stop that.”

The dwarf’s elated expression only deepened.

“I insist that you cease. It’s disturbing.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just… You know, Sparkler,” Varric sat back with the air of a sage about to lecture. “I had my doubts when he first started talking about you. Tevinter, I thought. Tricky. Vints are cagey shits. And you were too pretty. Still are,” he assuaged at Dorian’s squawk of horror, “but, man, back then, you _gleamed.”_

”Back _then?!_ “ Dorian gaped at him, “Need I remind you, it’s only been-“

”Shiny new foreign mage,” Varric continued, “power leaking out your elbows, so full of yourself it was surprising you could stay upright, didn’t seem to give a shit about anything anyone thought. Flaunting your pedigree and your power in whoever’s face you liked. Bad idea, I thought. But. All the time I’ve known him, Quicksilver’s been a stubborn sonofabitch. Even when he was green to the gills, there was no talking him out of a thing once he was set on it. And you? He was set from near the gate.” He tossed back his wine and let the glass clink as he set it back to the table. “Now, me, I’m the suspicious sort and he was _so_ naive in so many ways; I’d kinda taken to keeping an eye out for him. I was pretty sure you were about a hundred royals more trouble than he could handle.” He snorted suddenly, “He asked me to feel things out, you know. See if you were ‘so inclined’.”

Dorian felt his lips curve despite his recent wounding. “He mentioned.”

“I’d heard you were cavorting with the qunari. Wondered if I was supposed to say yes or no, faced with that. On the one hand, you were tied up.”

Dorian blinked hard. Wine. He needed wine. Immediately. Something he could drink in gulps rather than stinging sips.

“But also,” Varric shrugged, moving on, “I’d seen how you watched him. Careful-like, without your plumage fluffed. Figured it was up to you two to work it out on your own. I’m a writer, not a matchmaker.” He leaned forward, grinning, “Now, I gotta say: I’m damned glad you did. I mean, I was glad before. He was happy. You were happy. Bells and bees and whistles and whispers. But, shit, Sparkler. After everything that’s happened- and considering the coachfuls of stupid that are about to descend on us- _This_ is what you’re worried about?” He cackled, “You’re as crazy as he is.”

Dorian arched a brow, even though his heart was aching. Idle fantasy, that was what it had been. Madness. Yes. Madness to think that this part of their lives, at least, might be different - easier - now than it had been before.

Varric’s grin faltered, “You know what I mean - shit. Maybe not. I’m saying: he needs someone watching out for him right now and I’m glad that someone’s you.”

“No.”

Varric scrunched up his nose. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean,” Dorian leaned in, “that it _was_ an excellent idea until I realized you expected me to be his handler.”

“Well, you are.”

“ _Vishante kaffas._ You _like_ me and you _know_ him. If _you_ think that way, then I’m right. Everyone will believe that I’m manipulating him.”

“So what?”

Dorian snarled.

“Hey, whoa, I just mean- look, you’re here. And the Herald - until you guys figure out this whole timewarp thing - he’s gonna be what you might call inconsistent. If they’re looking to you, that provides the consistency. Right?”

“No.”

“-And once they get used to him again- I mean, it’s the Inquisitor. No one’s going to believe that he’s a puppet. There’s a difference between helping him sort through this shit and controlling what he does. You’d be more like a… chatelain. Where he’s the castle.”

“Absolutely not.”

Varric cocked his head to the side, “You want to break his poor disjointed heart?”

“I will simply explain-”

“No time for that. Finish your cup. Then we have to go.”

“Go?” Dorian frowned, “Where?”

“Tailor.” Varric waved a scrap of parchment, “I’ve got instructions.”

“From whom?” Dorian drawled dangerously, “Josephine?”

“Yeah. You and I go to the tailor next.”

“And after that?”

“More wine.”

“That’s on the instructions?”

“No, that’s the lubrication for the next thing.”

“Which is?”

“Moving you into the Inquisitor’s chambers.”

Dorian scowled. “How does she _know_ these things? Does she have spies like Leliana?”

“Ah… “ Varric laughed with relief, “you know, Sparkler, I can’t say for certain. But I am glad to not have to argue with her. She’s in full party planner mode. Remember what she was like before we went to Halamshiral? She has the swatches out again. She sent me three by raven.” He smiled nervously, “Scary woman.”

Dorian drained his glass in a painful slurp. The sheer wood-etching burn of it made his eyes water and his lungs hiss. “I’m very peeved with you.”

“I get that.”

“And with her.”

“Hey, no arguments.”

“So long as we’re clear.” Dorian tapped his fingers restlessly on the table, “ _Which_ tailor?”

Varric snorted. “You’re going to love this.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Dorian was standing on a small dais in front of a blazing fire, stripped down to his travel hosen and little else, his arms held out to his sides. “You could have at least allowed me the opportunity to bathe.” He peered over his shoulder. “For a day. And then sleep for another.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.” Varric sat comfortably beside the fire, heels kicked up on a stool.

“Why am I the only one being tortured?”

“He only has two hands. I thought you liked being the center of attention.”

“Not with pins.” Dorian sighed, “I _have_ robes, you know. Very fine ones.”

“So you say, and yet we’ve never seen them,” Vivienne’s voice dripped with poisonous amusement as she slipped through the doorway, eying the appointments with disdain. She turned to the tailor with a wide, warm smile, “My dear Monsieur Bechard, we are gratified by your alacritous arrival. I hope you can forgive us for the poor quality of your subjects for this project.”

The tailor jotted down a note and moved to Dorian’s other side to continue his measurements.

This was exactly the way he wanted to spend this afternoon. Exhausted and sweaty, standing on a pedestal in his undergarments while Vivienne critiqued him like poor, overpriced art. He finished the cup Varric had recently filled in a single swallow and winced, “What I wouldn't give for some proper wine.”

“Skyhold's steward is a sadistic little man who is trying to kill us,” Vivienne murmured with a small dip of an agreement.

“Perhaps he found a bargain he couldn't pass up, on vats of vinegar.”

“It could be worse, darling. It could be an Anders vintage.”

“Egad. We'd be forced to retaliate.”

“Perhaps we still might. I know it’s against your nature to say ‘thank you’, darling,” she eyed him critically. “It isn’t everyone who is graced with Monsieur Bechard’s talents.”

“I have said thank you; the man doesn’t answer.”

“He speaks with cloth and thread, eloquently.” Vivienne brushed her fingers over her nose, “Fresh from the trails, I smell.”

“I wasn’t given an opportunity to- do you really need that measurement?” he inquired, peering down between his legs.

“He knows what he’s doing.” Vivienne lifted her brows, “...Well, my dear? Have you anything of interest to share?”

“What- oh.” Dorian met her gaze. “Yes. It’s true. He’s here. Obviously. Given my current state of undress.” Varric laughed. Vivienne’s silence was glacial, but he’d come to recognize that chill for what it was. Insulation. “I’m sure he’d be glad to see you, Lady Vivienne.”

“Of course he would, darling; and yet here I am, speaking with you.” She brushed her fingers over a page of sketches, “Josephine and I have decided on a theme for the fete. The focus of Wintermarch is usually one of warmth; we’ve designed a visual theme based largely on the flames of the hearth. Something to put our guests at ease. You and he, in contrast, will be the bleakness of winter - uncompromising and inevitable. We’ll need to show his scars. I’ve heard about them from Cassandra; I think we’d be best served by showing all of them we can. You will convince him this is for the best. Monsieur Bechard and I have come up with several designs for you.” She lifted the sketch and considered him beside it, “Two. Two designs. Is it possible that you’ve managed to gain weight in your travels?” She tossed a pair of pages into the fire. “How you manage it on those rations, I’ll never know. Perhaps all the drink?”

Dorian narrowed his eyes, “I am not his handler.” He cast a dark look at Varric’s profile as the dwarf carefully looked away.

“Of course you are, darling. But more importantly, you’re his consort.”

“How dare-”

“Do hush before you injure yourself. It was quite obviously the direction of things before, and since his return to this realm - and your visit to Ferelden’s charmingly squalid capital - I’ve received no less than three letters expressing shock at the disturbing rumors of your… relationship.”

Damn and blast. “Rumors you were only too happy to verify, I assume.”

“I informed them the only disturbing thing in evidence was their penmanship.”

Dorian studied the flames in the hearth. They moved like water, twisting and flexing, smooth lines. Strange how similar heat and cold could be at times. “...Thank you.”

“I am not so quick to judge, darling. See that you give me no reason to feel otherwise.” She folded her hands neatly at her waist, “I do understand your childlike yearning for privacy, but that is quite simply not the world in which we live. One would think you would know as much, given your birthplace. The narrative must be controlled if we are to succeed.” She frowned, “You know, Monsieur Bechard, upon reflection, I think the only conceivable option is the _azur bis._ ”

The tailor exhaled what could well have been a high-pitched hum through his nose and swatted at the inside of Dorian’s thigh.

“I agree- perhaps something can be done to the neckline to draw attention away from that.”

“What-”

Vivienne carefully plucked a piece of lint from the edge of her sleeve. “I don’t mean to pry, darling, but in the mind of controlling the message… Is he quite present in his faculties? The Fade can take a toll, I hear. We’ve only to look at Solas to see the truth of that.”

Dorian glanced at the top of the tailor’s head. “Sharp as ever.”

“That is excellent news.”

“How is your Circle project coming along?” he asked blandly.

“Quite well, thank you. Cassandra has agreed to our use of the tower for study and solitude.”

“I look forward to being there when you explain your plans to the Inquisitor.”

“Why is that?”

Dorian lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “Nothing to do with me.”

She pressed her lips together, “Perhaps we should speak about this another time.”

He smiled, “It would be my pleasure, Lady Vivienne.”

“Monsieur Bechard,” she inclined her head towards the tailor, “I’ll return when you’ve moved on to the next of your tasks. Lord Pavus. Messere Tethras.”

Dorian watched her go, unable to stop the laugh that escaped him. “I do enjoy riling that woman.”

To his side, the taciturn tailor chuckled. 

* * *

The stone of the balustrade was chill under his palms as he peered out over Skyhold’s courtyard. The number of times he’d stood just here, reaching his senses out across the fortress to seek out its secrets, always aware of the eyes that could glance aloft and seek him out. Ponder ‘What is that Tevinter up to?’ Did they think him a malevolent shadow when they saw the shape of him on the Inquisitor's terrace? A demon-worshipper elbow deep in blood magic? Did they wonder if he had a right to be there, inner circle or not? Had they seen Aran tugging him into a storage room? Had they heard the muffled sighs in darkened stairwells or heard the rumors of them? What did they think? What did they know?

And now… He eyed the stacks of books already littering the quarters. Scrolls from the Western Approach. Papers from his collection in the library. Servants had brought a crate of his things. More would arrive soon enough. He had carried the most precious himself: the astrolabe, the measuring crystals, his original pressing of Vinlos’ Cryptozoological Studies. His. His things. Mixed with Aran’s. The sight of their libraries melding was equally as stirring as the idea that they would be sharing the bed. Not his. Theirs. He could brush his fingers along the spines in the shelves, touch Aran’s collected histories of the Dalish alongside his Perspectives on the Interpretation of Divine Runes; the beaten leather bindings, the impressed, gold-filled titles, the rich scent of well-loved parchment.

The door opening made him aware that he was fondling their books. He schooled his features into scholarly consideration and turned to spot the wide brim of a dirty hat.

It was shock that made his breath hitch, he was certain. Cole had used a door. Opened it, walked through, closed it behind him. As though it mattered. As though it were any kind of impediment. Now he stood, hands at his sides, idling at the top of the stairs.

Dorian blamed the lingering feel of the familiar leather beneath his fingers for the way his body tightened. There was no reason, no reason at all, for the sight of this fellow standing there in soiled patchwork armor to have this effect on him. Make him want to drop to his knees. What did it matter what had transpired? They were sharing Aran, which meant they would likely share each other again. When Aran was there. He couldn’t see Cole’s eyes. Only the subtle curve of his too-full lips, expression unreadable. Silent and waiting. As open and unknowable as a fresh piece of parchment. Breath baited, Dorian watched as those long fingers lifted - two together through the air in an arc like a paintbrush - and came to land on the railing. Just those two. Barely touching the stone. Were they touching? They may well have been hovering just above. Dorian heard a wisp of breath, a quiet rough sound, like heavy furniture nudging a scant distance across stone. His own sigh.

He thought of the first time he’d woken next to Plenius Servire in that field of lilies just south of his family’s estate. The soft scent of flowers and crushed grass and the sun rising around them as their eyes met and each made the decision not to untwine, not yet, just linger a little while longer. That mutual understanding that this, that what was between them, was as unfettered and achingly tangible as the earth beneath their conjoined bodies.

Cole tipped his head up just enough for his eyes to peek from the shade of the brim. As blue as cornflowers. As soft as summer grass. As warm as the wind coming over the meadow.

Cole would touch him now, Dorian thought. He’d cross the room, and touch his wrist with those same two fingers, and Dorian would be able to feel for a moment the chill of the stone before Cole’s warmth replaced it. Cole would exhale and Dorian would feel that breath meadowwinding over his skin. They would melt together like wax and Aran would find them sprawled and molten on the bed, so many whimpering nerve-endings upon which his thoughtful touches could play ephemeral music for the stars.

He felt his breath quiver and stretch like the string of a violin winding, tightening, finding the right note, pluck and listen, shiver, pluck again. He could feel the stone through the soles of his boots, the steady coarseness of it. The reliable flesh of the book still beneath his fingers. Right. Whole. Right where he should be. Exactly so.

“You should keep the Tevinter histories in the library. It’s good for them to see you studying them. It reminds them that you are looking for answers, just as they are,” Cole blinked slowly. “Minaeve will miss you if you don’t visit.”

“I would miss her, too.” Was that his voice? That quiet, slightly cracking thing?

Cole nodded, barely, more of a chin shift than the bob of his head, and turned back down the stairs.

“Going?” Dorian asked quietly. Desperately. Maker help him. Obviously, he was going. Why had he come? Why was he leaving? What was happening inside of him? Had he felt what Dorian had - that swollen, emptied elasticity of time?

“For now.” Cole disappeared past the railing, the sounds of his feet on the stairs, the door opening again.

“Cole-“ Dorian began.

“Hello, Varric,” Cole said warmly. “The light is returning, can you feel it?”

“You said it, Kid. The Herald up there?”

“No,” Cole answered.

Boots rapped the stone in opposing directions. Varric peered through the railings, “Hey. Looks like you’re settling in.”

Dorian didn’t know what to do with his hands. His muscles felt too stiff and too relaxed, as though he’d just rolled out of bed after hours of ecstasy. “Oh, yes?” he croaked, cleared his throat. Carefully peeled his fingers from the books. His feet from the floor. Tossed his hand through the air and brought the candles in the room bursting into welcoming light.

“I interrupt something?”

Dorian sank bonelessly onto the chaise beside a crate of books. “The unwelcome sensation of manual labor,” he smiled winningly, gesturing towards an open armchair. “Checking up on me?”

“Looking for Quicksilver. I was thinking we should get the gang together for a game of Wicked Grace. Relax for a minute while all the upholstery gets redone.”

“A fine idea, but he isn’t here.” And that was worrisome. “Perhaps Josephine is holding him hostage.”

“I just saw her with the caterer.” Varric shrugged unconvincingly, “I’m sure he’s… fine. Around. Right?”

"Right."

Varric stood awkwardly, a frown crawling across his face and into his eyes, then shifted, “Maybe we should look.”

"Yes," Dorian nodded, already half to his feet. “I think you’re exactly right.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Spoilers for the Trespasser DLC...

“Cahoots: I sense them,” Aran muttered, but his joy at seeing Josie again had him leaving his lover to Varric’s shenanigans in favor of taking the stairs two at a time. He caught the ambassador around her middle and hoisted her into the air with a whoop. 

“Ah! Wet and cold, wet and cold!” Josephine was laughing as he swept her back to the ground and turned on Leliana, but the spymaster held one hand up, lifting her chin.

“Don’t even think it.”

He grinned, keeping an arm around Josephine’s waist. “Never would I ever.”

“Hm.” She rested her lifted hand on his shoulder, “It is good to see you, Inquisitor. Come inside. There is much to discuss. Cassandra says you’ve kept a nearly complete record of the times and places you’ve been?”

“Such as I could manage,” Aran shrugged, walking between them.

“Let him rest-“ Josie said, hugging him as they walked. “There is still quite a-“

“We can’t know how long we’ll have him here. It’s important to learn everything we can.”

“I’m fine, Josie; Leliana’s right, we do need to...” he trailed off as they led him down through a door he’d never seen before. “Where are you taking me?”

“We have some of the Ferelden Banns here signing a trade agreement with Serat. And there are visiting nobles from the Free Marches and Orlais. Keeping everyone in the same place without incident has been a difficult mediation and I’d rather not throw it into upheaval with… well. You.” Josephine smiled up at him, “It is good to see you, but you look terrible.”

“Thank you?” Aran pickled.

“We will see what we can do,” Leliana murmured, eyeing him critically as they slipped into a small study near the kitchens. 

“Why are there so many people here?” His. His little hideaway. His and Dorian’s, for so short a time. Aran wandered over to the desk and opened a small box containing strips of silk cloth. Blue. Red. He glanced up as he closed the box carefully again, “Sorry, I missed that.”

“Really, Aran,” Josie sighed.

“Readjusting. I’ll pay attention this time.”

Leliana smirked, “I was saying that it is important we maintain a semblance of normalcy-“

“Absolutely not,” Josephine shook her head, taking a seat behind his desk. “He came back last time with the mark on his hand, proof of Andraste’s touch. We must lean heavily on these newest changes, showcase them, control the rumors and make them useful.”

“Certainly. We control them by controlling when the information is accessed, not by showing them off- we need more time to gather the details before-“

Aran brushed his fingers over his books, letting them argue. Old friends, bound in leather. Familiar dust. The glint and glimmer of tiny treasures. Stones that held memories and dreams and wishing, waiting hours. Notes from a former self in a familiar hand.

“It's too late for all that, Leliana. Our guests are on their way. The caterers have begun preparations. Now is not the time to be fretting.”

“I’m not  _ fretting _ , but Cassandra didn’t tell us enough. Putting him in the public eye right now is not a good idea, Josephine-“

Aran glanced back at them, “Oh, no-“

Josephine smiled, warmly waving away his concerns, “I heard about your costume for Satinalia from Cullen. To think of all the times you told me how you hated balls and now I learn you’ve been off attending Minrathous galas, no less. It’s an excellent challenge.”

“Challenge? You want to throw a bloodbath orgy?”

She chuckled, tucking her tongue in cheek, “I want to throw a  _ ball _ . A midwinter feast to celebrate the end of the darkness we’ve faced and the coming of the light. A way to bring all our allies together for the coming battle.”

Aran leaned back against the shelves, arms crossed. “Battles.”

“Hm?”

“Something more to the point of what I wished to discuss.” Leliana drew a series of scrolls from her belt purse. “Have you gathered any further information about what we can expect from the Dragon of Mystery and its prophet since last we spoke?”

“I have no idea when last we spoke.”

Leliana hummed, “Two months ago.”

He stared at her. Outside, the bagpipes still played; their familiar lilting bray muted through the stone walls. “You have to realize that is not helpful. Two months for you could be… I have no idea.”

“Ah. Yes.”

Josephine offered him a sheaf of papers, “Here’s the invitation list. To allow for arrivals by midwinter's eve, if there’s anyone else you want added, I'll need to send the extra invitations by tonight. We have room for perhaps one or two more delegations.”

He shuffled the pages, awed, “This is a novel, not an invitation list.”

“If you think of someone I’ve left out, just make a note at the end.”

“Left out?” He looked up from page four, “I think you’ve listed every person in Orlais.” He turned a page, “And Ferelden.”

She laughed, rising in a flurry to kiss both his cheeks, “Look it over and I’ll send someone for it this evening when you see the tailor.” She paused at the door, “It is so good to have you home again, my lord. Thank you for agreeing to help us with this.”

“I-  what? When did I agree?” he asked the closed door. 

“Here it is,” Leliana looked up. “Your last letter outlined…” she leaned her hip on the edge of the desk, watching him. “Aran.”

“Yes? Sorry?” He glanced up from the sheaf, his heart pounding noisily in his ears. So many people. So many names. He couldn’t think. She wanted all these people… here?

“How is the progress coming, truly, on your controlling these… fluctuations through time?” she asked quietly.

He exhaled slowly. “Dorian’s working on it.”

“So you mentioned,” she lifted the letter, his jotting handwriting clear in the candlelight.

Aran scrubbed a hand through his hair, “This Dorian, too.”

“So Cassandra mentioned.” She tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps the combined effort will bear greater results.” Leaving the letter on his desk beside him, she touched his arm gently, “Look it over when you have a chance. We’ll catch up later.”

“...Leliana?”

“Yes, Whisperer?” Her lips curved in a mild smirk. 

“Has it given you trouble? Knowing? I never gave a thought to how it might divide you all.”

“It is my duty to hold more knowledge than they do, and to decide when they need that knowledge. This is but a temporary fracture.” She considered him silently for a few moments, “You asked the Iron Bull to investigate Blackwall.”

Of course she knew. “What do you know about him?”

“I was surprised that he knew little of the Grey Wardens disappearance, but I am glad that he is with us. Even if he is… not what I expected.”

“So you know.”

She walked away from him, idly touching unlit candle stubs. “He has been useful.”

“He’s not Blackwall, Leliana.”

“And loyal.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Josephine’s fond of him.”

“He’s not even a Warden.”

“And the Herald of Andraste prays to Mythal. We are not all as we appear.”

“Some people think they’re one and the same, you know.”

She lifted her brows, bemused. “You have been in Minrathous quite a long time.”

”That isn’t to blame for my heresy.” He frowned at the letter, his own hand staring back at him. He’d never thought to see these letters here. Home. He’d been  _ home _ and he hadn’t known it. “Still think ‘the dawn will come’?”

“It  _ has _ come, Inquisitor.” She rested her hands gently on his shoulders. “Of that, I have no doubt: you are the Inquisition’s dawn, as surely as you are guided by Mythal and Andraste and whatever other fates have put you in our path. The only trick is making sure our friends understand that before they riot.  _ This _ is your place. Rest. I’ll send something for you to eat.”

“Leliana-“

“Perhaps after you eat, you can take a walk in the gardens,” she continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “See the work that has been done in your absence. Look to the sky, my friend. Once, you knew how to hear her. You will again.” 

He watched her leave, the door closing quietly and firmly behind her. How much did she know? How much had he himself told her? So many different versions of her criss-crossed his memory, he couldn’t begin to guess which Leliana this was. Had been. Varric… Varric might be able to help him sort it. And Grimna. “Bloody time travel,” he muttered, folding the letter and slipping it into his pocket. Later. He would deal with it later. For now… He plucked a book of Free Marcher history from the shelf and began leafing through it, looking for familiar things. Signs. Where had he been? What had he done to his world? He barely noticed the soft footed kitchen aide who brought a tray of stew and a flagon of ale, but he took a seat as the door closed to leave him alone again.

The quiet solitude of his little thinking room eased his nerves as he stabbed at beef and potatoes in thick gravy. Ferelden food. The kind you would be better off eating in the dark, perhaps, but it settled his stomach. Home. He was home. Somewhere nearby, Dorian and Cole were safe and warm and close. If he found the right spot, he would hear Varric’s laugh and the Bull roaring with the Chargers. Home. The people, not the stones. The people he kept finding again and again, who made his life worth living even when it seemed like there was nothing left - not only to live for, but just… nothing. 

He left the empty platter and the open books to cross the room; he touched the stones beside the door and leaned his cheek to the smooth warmth of them, remembering a botched apology, an exorcism, a beginning. Even in the darkest of darknesses, he’d loved that mad, brilliant man with his wit and wisdom. A laugh escaped him, surprised him. Even now, Dorian was pulling him out of doldrums. 

Leliana suggested that he look to the sky; Aran could have told her that if there were constellations he looked to, they were the curve of a mustache and the brim of a hat. Crescents in the dark, shielding and sharp, guiding the way. He kissed the wall. Home. He needed to find them. Here, in the familiar, to make it all real again. This place. This world.  _ His _ world. His heart. His future, if he was lucky. 

The stairs leading up to the library had been blocked, so he took the long way, snaking up to the ramparts and down through the courtyard. 

“Found, but still lost?” 

He flushed as he realized that he’d been caught staring at a sculpture of Andraste.  Her palms out turned, graceful and welcoming. Her shoulders strong, chin held high. “Apparently. Do-” He blinked. “Revered Mother,” Aran bowed awkwardly, cursing inwardly for allowing himself to become lost in reverie. “I’m sorry- I didn’t intend to disturb your prayers.”

“You did not.” Mother Giselle pressed a hand above her own heart, then pressed that same hand to Aran’s chest. As graceful and welcoming as her patron Andraste. “So it is true. We are blessed again by Her hand. The Maker has set you on a difficult path, but word from Adamant will convince even the most skeptical that you have returned to us stronger than before.”

He peered down at her hand on him. Was he allowed to ask her to stop touching him? Where was everyone? “Right. Well… having returned… I think I was supposed to go to the War Room-”

“There is time for that.” She smiled, taking his arm to guide him.

So. Very. Awkward. “...How are the people here at Skyhold?”

“They are still in shock, as might be expected, but the more they see you, the more secure they will feel. As the word of your return spreads, we hear of many pilgrims beginning the journey here anew.”

“Yes. I met some on our way to the Western Approach.” He carefully eased his arm from her and slipped his hands into his pockets. “What do they do here?”

“Many are refugees, seeking safety and food. Others simply seek the comfort of the Chant of Light in a place that has been touched by the grace of Andraste. You have inspired so many, not only in faith, but to do good works. It is a chaotic time in Orlais and Ferelden, but those who leave us do so with grateful hearts, full bellies, and strengthened will. Your Inquisition is blossoming.”

“The Inquisition belongs to all of us. Every success, anyway.” He bit his lip. He didn’t want to get into… anything, really, with the Revered Mother. He was a heretic. He hadn’t really  _ felt _ it until her gaze had landed on him. Blind faith; this was what it looked like. Had he had that unsubstantiated surety of purpose at some point? It felt so very far away. Void - what would Leonora say if she saw him now?

It was the first thought he’d had for his family since… Gods, how long? The people here had become his family more than any of his blood relatives, his brothers and sisters, his parents… He should have been shamed by the realization, but it only made him sad. Where were they? How were they faring? Distant concerns compared to the imperatives. He looked down at his hands, “There will be some few Wardens arriving in the next weeks. If you could inform the clerics to keep a tender eye on them, I’d be obliged. They’ve been through the wringer.”

“I’ll see to it.” She pressed her palm to her cheek, “Forgive me. We have heard such things from the scouts… I had dismissed much as rumor, but I am pleased to find you well and whole.” She looked down, “The last time we spoke, before you were attacked- I am shamed by my behavior that day. I was harsh with you-“

“Were you?” he asked evasively, unsure. His memories of her were distant, edged in awe and frustration. 

“And with Lord Pavus. After you were gone, I watched him mourn your loss, alongside the rest of us. I found… I had forgotten that Blessed Andraste was not always the grim warrior stiff with resolve. She loved and was loved in return. It made her stronger. And I see in you the strength that his love lends to you. And his faith. Forgive me, Herald of Andraste.” 

Gods. If Andraste was as real as they all seemed to believe, surely he would be struck by lightning now. He actually waited for it to happen. When it didn’t, he cleared his throat, “Mother-”

“It is near the evening Chant. We’ll speak more another time, but in the meantime, I wanted to make sure you knew: I have spoken with the ambassador and the Nightingale, and I have agreed to support Lord Pavus’ position at your side. I will endorse you both with the Chantry and with those nobility who may inquire. It would be easier if he openly condemned the Black Divine, but I understand that may be difficult for him politically.” She squeezed his hand gently, “Will you join us in the Chant?”

Aran blinked, barely feeling her hand on his, “Ah-” He felt the ground dip and swell beneath his feet. “No, I- thank you- I- Something is-” Hot. Too hot. His skin sizzled in the soft evening breeze. Maybe the lightning was finally coming-  Across the courtyard, he caught sight of sharp ears, a bald pate, and a thoughtful, studious pair of eyes fixated on him. 

Giselle followed his gaze and bowed her head, “As you will, your Worship. Another time.”

He watched her go, somehow both rooted and unstable. Bile burned at the back of his throat. A pinching pain behind his eyes expanded and contracted in increasing tempo. Fear snagged at his breath, cold and ragged. 

“Inquisitor. I barely recognized you. Have you been sleeping well?” Solas smirked mildly at his little joke, resting an avuncular hand on Aran’s shoulder. “You looked different in dreams.”

And just as quickly as he’d felt lost, Aran was still and steady. “Yes.” He struggled to gather his thoughts, “Yes. That was real? The Fade?”

“You couldn’t tell?”

“No. That was- I’ve never done anything like that before. Do you regularly talk to people in dreams?”

“No. Consider that one more rule you have effortlessly broken in your rise to power.”

“ _ My _ rise to power. Right.” Steady now. Still here. Still. Here. Aran rolled his eyes, “I guess it was better than the dream where I’m standing naked in front of the war table.”

Solas chuckled. “Since you went to the trouble of finding me in your sleep, it was worth the effort of doing something interesting.”

“ _ I _ found  _ you _ ?”

“You did. I had been seeking a Spirit of Learning to aid me in unraveling a series of enigmas in a tomb to the south when I felt your touch at my mind. It was she, in fact, who helped us both to find what we were looking for in that dream. I had no idea the anchor would allow you to dream with such focus. It is truly remarkable. But I am reasonably certain we are awake now. Do you have a moment?”

“More than one.” 

“Allow me to accompany you, then.”

Aran tucked his hands into his pockets again - safe - and followed the elf through the hall. Josephine’s staff were hard at work scrubbing tables and floors, shining the mosaics affixed to the walls, laying out candelabras at equal intervals...

“What were you like before the anchor?”

Solas’ question drew him back to the moment. ”Pardon?”

“Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?”

“It’s been… a long time, Solas. I don’t know. Anyway, if it had, do you really think I’d have noticed?”

“No, that’s an excellent point.”

Aran tugged at his ear as the whispers of the nearby servers and scrubbers kept drawing his attention away, “Why do you ask?”

“I have been speaking with Cole about your journeys. You show a wisdom I have not seen since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected.”

“What have I done that’s so surprising? Aside from still being alive?”

“Humans are short-sighted and brutish; blind to the beauty of the Fade. Their minds cast in a duality of black and white. But you have shown a subtlety in your actions. A wisdom that goes against everything I know of your people.”

“I don’t know about that- My only wisdom, so far as I can tell, is listening when other people tell me what they think. And then having the sense to take those opinions and sort through them for ways to survive.”

“You’re wrong. Even through everything you’ve experienced, you’ve kept hold of your faith-”

“No-”

“-in your friends. Your cause. The people around you. It isn’t a mere animal instinct for survival. It’s a deeper understanding of what truly matters.” 

“I don’t…” Aran frowned as the headache began to swirl again, dizzying. “I haven’t-“

“I’m not speaking of religion. That is ludicrous. But your faith in other people, in their possibility-“ Solas bowed his head. “It reminds me of someone I once knew and respected deeply. I failed to tell them before it was too late. I won’t have the same regret again.”

“I know,” Aran could hear himself, but the words were not his own. Rolling like bells, deep in his lungs. “I always knew.”

“...Inquisitor?”

Whispers. Secrets. Too loud. Too much. “I’m going to be sick,” he gasped, and then he was. Still, he remained on his feet. That was something. He stared at the ceiling. Back pressed to even stone slabs. The floor. He was on the floor. He couldn’t remember falling. He rubbed his fingers over his brow, pressing, as Solas’s face swam into view. 

“What did you do?” the elf roared.

“Wha-”

“The Well, you great fool.  _ Vir'abelasan _ . Why did you do it?”

“Solas-”

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!” he snapped. 

“I-“

“You are Mythal’s  _ creature _ .” He shook his head forcefully, “Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her. You have given up a part of yourself.”

“I know it well enough. Why do you care?” Aran scrubbed his hands over his face, sitting up carefully. “You don’t even believe in ancient elven gods.”

“I don’t believe they were gods, no, but they existed!  _ Something _ existed to start the legends! If not gods, then mages, or spirits, or something we’ve never seen. And you are  _ bound _ to one of them now.”

“I’m aware.” Aran gritted his teeth, his tongue sour. “I told Cole not to-“

“He  _ didn’t _ say anything - and the fact that he thinks to keep secrets at your bidding is a sign of some deep corruption within him as a spirit of compassion.  _ I can feel her on you _ . In your mind. It’s a wonder I didn’t sense it until now. And something else. Something is…” Solas frowned, uncertain and wary, “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“It feels like an echo.” 

_ “It feels like an echo,” Aran repeated; his eyelids fluttered, eyes rolling back, “I don’t… don’t…”  _

_ Cool fingers pressed against his temples as he fell, sinking into gray blue mist that swirled and lapped. He watched across a small pool as Solas held a woman with a horned headdress, loosened into so much dead weight in his arms. He turned towards an eluvian, his reflection rippling with its magic. _

Aran shook his head slowly, “Solas…?”

_ The elf turned just barely, considering him out of the corner of his eye, “You truly do have a talent for being where you shouldn’t.” _

_ Aran couldn’t speak. The woman in the elf’s arms- something about her called to him. Tears swelled in his eyes, unbidden. “That’s-” _

_ “An old friend. To both of us, it would seem.” He flexed one hand out and a scream tore from Aran’s throat: the lyrium in his flesh turned to molten mercury, the anchor burst into a swollen expulsion of power. “Interesting. You have become more entwined than you realize.” Solas twitched his fingers in the air and the anchor’s power gentled, at least enough for Aran to catch his breath. “That should give us some more time.” _

“What happened?” He heard Dorian’s voice as though down a long hallway, far, far away, misty and muffled.

_ “Dorian-” he called, but his voice had no sound. He tried again, only to hear a croaking sigh. _

“He vanished,” Solas was saying somewhere far away, “Then, a moment later, he returned- The cost of the anchor in addition to these lyrium markings appears to be too high. See how the trails deepen here-”

“He was fine, not three hours ago-” 

A cacophony of voices. Whispers and shouts. Secrets and snarls. Memories twining through and around him like tangled vines.

_ “I apologize for the disruption. I needed to see if the bond you bear was truly indelible. And now I have.” The fur-cloaked Solas closed his hand, looking away. “Strange, that she should reach for you. I wonder: did she call you here, or did I?” _

_ “How did-” Aran swallowed, “What-?” _

_ Solas knelt slowly, carefully laying the woman out on a moss-cloaked rock beneath an ancient tree. He rested his fingers gently on her forehead, then stood, turning the weight of his attention to Aran where he braced against the mossy ground. “I tried to save you at Haven. I wasn’t strong enough to do much more than keep you alive then. Now-” He sighed, “Well. Now I fear it maybe too late. For any number of reasons.” _

“This is part of the timelessness?” Cassandra’s voice filtered from the aether.

“No, this is- I haven’t seen him like this-” Dorian.

“Perhaps the magic inherent in Skyhold itself has triggered some-” Vivienne.

Vivienne and Cassandra. Dorian and Solas. Cullen. Leliana. Josephine cursing in the background. Anyone. Everyone. Far away, away, he could hear Cole’s anguished shout echoing out across the mountains. 

_ “You killed her-“ _

_ “No. They did.” _

_ Aran shook his head, “She’s- I saw-” _

_ “What  _ did _ you see, Inquisitor? Or was it Whisperer? Or Little Fox? Inquisitive little whispering fox.They weren’t wrong to call you that. Perhaps closer to the truth than any other moniker.” He narrowed his eyes. “Mythal died long ago, destroyed by the ‘elven gods’.” He sneered, “And only an eternity of torment is the fitting answer to such a crime.”  _

_ “But I felt-” _

_ He smiled sadly, “The goddess you were bound to was but a fragment, a shard of the Evanuris who once guided and protected her people. She was the best of them. And they killed her in their lust for power.” _

_ “Then-” _

_ “As much as I have always enjoyed your questioning, Inquisitor, I do have some of my own.” _

“Aran, I forbid you - absolutely forbid you - to die. Do you understand me?”

Aran’s ears ached with pressure. He gritted his teeth, exhaling sharply, “No, it’s-”

_ Solas considered him with thoughtful, calculating eyes. “Your mistress is gone. You alone bear the weight of the Well and the mark of the anchor. What will you do?” He growled softly as Aran tried to make sense of the voices filtering around him, “Enough. I will have your complete attention.” He snapped his fingers and the distant chatter between Dorian and the others dissipated into crystalline silence.  _


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Trespasser DLC spoilers... I pulled some direct dialogue here to make sure I got the lore (the bits I’m using anyway) spot on. So the bits that seem familiar? Yeah, those are borrowed with love and no greed.

The mist greedily supped on the light, casting a sense of twilight over the small mossy clearing. This place. He knew this place. Familiar. Achingly familiar.

“Answer.”

Aran gasped, sitting up, the truth pouring out of him like hot wine, “We can never go back to the way things were. I’ll try to help this world move forward. Avoid the wars to come, if we can. Survive them, if we can’t. Rebuild.”

“Build an empire you mean.”

Aran’s teeth burned. “Gods, no. I don’t want-”

“Power? The like of which you are filled to brimming with?”

“I never wanted it- I never asked for it-”

“But you took it all the same. What do you want?”

“I want to stop the things I’ve seen. The death. The destruction. The horror. I want a world where we’re all free to be as we were meant.”

“You could have that for yourself in obscurity. You know what is coming and where and when. You could lead your life peacefully out of harm’s way. You and those you love could be free to do as you wished.”

“But what about everyone else?”

“You would risk everything you have in the hope that the future of the world is better that what you’ve seen?”

“Yes.”

Solas crossed to him. His fingers brushed beneath Aran’s chin, lifting him from the ground as though he were a dandelion puff, “And what if it isn’t, little fox? What if you wake up to find that the future you have shaped is worse than what was?”

Aran felt weightless, but the steady expectation in the elf’s eyes grounded him despite the sensation, “If you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d know that wasn’t possible. Together- if we work together, I believe we can solve whatever comes our way-”

“Such confidence,” Solas chided sadly.

“What’s the alternative? Do nothing? Run away? We have to keep trying.”

Solas folded his hands, peering into the eluvian, and Aran stumbled as his feet touched the earth again. “You’re right. Thank you.”

“...For what?”

“For not being quite what I expected. For impressing me. You have offered hope that if one keeps trying, even if the consequences are grave, that someday, things will be better. And with luck, some of the past may yet survive.”

“Which past?” Aran asked breathless. “Solas, if Mythal is gone… what’s left?”

“Don’t worry, Inquisitor. She will never be truly gone. Her spirit will always reside in the Fade. Her memory will live on in us.” 

“But-“ What of the prophecy? Her guidance? His purpose- to be abandoned by Andraste, then Mythal… alone. Alone, with only his fears of the future and his own darkness. Soaked in power he couldn’t begin to understand. Drowning in it. There’d been such comfort in her service and now… what was he now? Neither Fox nor Herald. Only… Aran, last and lost.

As Solas studied Aran, his lips curved, parting with a laugh, and his teeth were... sharp. “You won’t be alone. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Solas-” Aran shut his eyes against the grinding of his bones. 

“We will found a new world, my friend. Together, as you said, we can create what always should have been.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Go home, little fox. You still have a dragon to kill, if I remember correctly. It is not yet time for you to play with the wolves.”

Echoes upon echoes. Aran’s vision swam, “You- you’re the Dread Wolf.” 

“Well done.” He crossed his wrists lightly at the base of his spine, “I was Solas first. Fen’Harel came later… An insult I took as a badge of pride. The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies. Not unlike ‘Inquisitor’, I suppose.” He turned his head just barely, the sharp line of his nose hawk-like in profile. “You’ve heard the old Dalish curse, I suppose, in your time among the wanderers.”

“Fen’Harel ver na. May the Dread Wolf take you,” Aran repeated the phrase, then yelped as pain lanced through his hand, burning and boiling through his blood into his brain. His head spun and swam, vision tumbling over itself as he clattered back to the ground like a puppet unstrung. He emptied himself of every stitch of food, shaking and sweating, and only when he lay completely prone on the ground did he feel a cold, rough hand come to rest on the back of his neck. Soothing, but uncompromising. 

“For ages, I lay in dark in dreaming sleep whole countless wars and ages passed. My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the elven people, even if it means this world you seek to protect must die.”

“Solas-“ Aran rasped, “there’s a way, there is always a way, even when it seems impossible. This world doesn’t have to die to bring the elves to return.”

“You have long shown a thoughtfulness I have respected. It would be too easy to tell you too much. I will give you this: I am no Corypheus. I take no joy in this. But the return of my people will mean the end of yours. That is my fight.” Another cold, powerful hand folded over the top of Aran’s, the anchor flexing unwieldy between their palms. The cold made him weak. The pain burned ice through every inch of him. Still Solas spoke in a sharp whisper against his ear, his breath eerily warm in comparison. “ _Enas’ea’nan. Ir abelas, falon’ha’su, verem’esal boradin eolaselan ma, arulin’holm arone’mah. Enas’ea’himsulem. Enas’ea’harilla. Enas’ea’nan. Enas’ea’mis’ara. Ar lasanemah na revas, dirtha’var’en._ ” 

All at once, the pressure on his neck released, leaving Aran empty as a discarded chalice on the ground. “Solas?”

” _A’malin emma.”_ The elf sounded almost sad. “You will remember when you must.”

 _“Telharthan…”_ Aran whispered.

 _“Nuvemah dirthalas.”_ Solas looked away. _“Vara.”_


End file.
